


Mine Or: When Mycroft's Intervention Was Due

by LadyGlinda



Series: Jealous, Possessive Mycroft [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: At Least For The Holmes Brothers, BAMF Anthea (Sherlock), BAMF Mycroft Holmes, Blood and Violence, Case Fic, Elements of TBB/TGG/TFP, Eventual Fluff, Happy Ending, Heavy Angst, Injury, Jealous Mycroft, M/M, Minor John Watson/Sarah Sawyer, Murder, Not Canon Compliant, Not John Friendly, Poor Sherlock Holmes, Possessive Mycroft, Sibling Incest, Smut, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-13 02:50:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 26,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21236918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda
Summary: Sherlock and Mycroft struggle with their difficult relationship, which has not got any easier with John moving in with Sherlock and people making wrong assumptions about the two flatmates. A case leads to violence and death.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SlytherinsDragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlytherinsDragon/gifts), [Snoozydog](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snoozydog/gifts).

> This is not a fluffy story. It is angsty and violent. The few people who might still read it will hopefully enjoy it. Gifted to two great writers who supported my struggling self as I really thought I couldn't finish this story. It is finished now and I will post the three parts in quick succession. For everybody who reads, thank you, and perhaps show your appreciation with a kudo or a comment :)  
There are elements of several episodes in this and an OC who might remind you of a real actor, which is a total coincidence of course ;)

### Surveillance And Suspicion

“Your tea, sir.”

Mycroft didn’t even answer Anthea, hardly noticing the steaming mug that was being placed on his desk. His eyes were glued to the newspaper in front of him.

During all those years when Sherlock had been working for the police and sometimes also for private clients, he had never ended up in the tabloids. He had told Lestrade to keep his name off the record and nobody had known his face apart from the people he had taken cases for and some witnesses he had been allowed to talk to.

And he had only been working with the sodding doctor for three weeks and now his (albeit pissed-off) face was staring from page one. It was mostly due to the case of course. Sherlock had found a very valuable painting that had been stolen from a museum, and the director had been so far over the moon that he had given Sherlock's name to the press in his enthusiasm, and they had hunted him down in front of 221B Baker Street. It wasn’t a very flattering picture with his hair wet and tousled and his eyes glowering with pure hatred at the photographer, the little doctor next to Sherlock looking surprised and silly into the cameras, but that was not what was pissing off Mycroft so much.

It was the text under the picture. Of course Sherlock's accomplishment was mentioned, and they had even found out he also helped the police. So far, so true. But then they had started speculating about the detective and his doctor, his _blogger_! Because that was what John was doing – writing a blog about their ‘adventures’. No wonder the press had developed some interest in Sherlock now. And what kind of interest… _‘confirmed bachelors’ _they had been called. _‘Are they really just friends and colleagues?’ _Mycroft had had to read. His pulse had sped up at the barely concealed insinuation that Sherlock and John were lovers… He knew they were not but it made his blood boil that anyone could think that his Sherlock was someone else's lover…

One day after the case that had almost cost his brother’s life, Mycroft had ordered the new flat to be covered with bugs that were not to be discovered with usual bug detectors; not that he thought his brother had one to begin with. He had decided against fucking with Sherlock’s phone as his brother would perhaps suspect this, and the police certainly had detectors he could use when he was in the Yard. So he had settled for the flat, and he had, at least for the time being, refrained from using cameras. They were too easy to discover. His agents had worked fast and nobody had seen them come and go; they had waited until the old woman who served as Sherlock's landlady and housekeeper had gone out doing grocery shopping, and thankfully, Sherlock and John had been busy with a case for the police at this time. The bugs were hidden perfectly and he was positive that Sherlock would never find out about them.

He had heard nothing so far that gave the impression that Sherlock was in love with the doctor, let alone had an affair with him. In fact John was actively searching for female company and had had a few dates already, never twice with the same woman though. And he had not shown a hint of exasperation at Sherlock's strange behaviour; in fact they were getting along greatly, but on a completely platonic basis, and actually it was quite convenient that he was looking after Sherlock now, even getting him to eat from time to time, and Sherlock had not got high since they had moved in with each other.

He should be relieved and what did it matter what the papers wrote about his brother? Sherlock was certainly equally upset about it.

But it irked him… And again he had hardly seen Sherlock lately as both of them were so busy at the moment. Sherlock's help was sought after a lot and Mycroft had to work until late at night as everybody seemed to want to make his life miserable. And he frankly hated it that John had become so important to his brother… And no matter how useful he might be – he hated John Watson, period, just for his existence in Sherlock's life.

With an impatient gesture he crumpled up the bloody newspaper and threw it into the bin with quite some force. He had other things to do. There were people to be yelled at for their endless stupidity. He had a meeting to prepare and reports to read. But all he could think about was the fact that half of England now thought that Sherlock was fucking his ugly dwarf of a stupid blogger… And he would be damned if he didn't still have a bad feeling about him, knowing some disturbing facts about his army career, and he wished he could bin John like he had done with the damn paper…

He could of course. Sentiment kept him from it. The sentiment Sherlock had so quickly developed for the doctor. And the sentiment that he felt for his baby brother, who would most certainly be very cross if he took care of his friend.

With a sigh he turned to a statistics report. If life just could be consisting of nothing but numbers. Numbers were logical. Sentiment turned everything into a mess.

He would see Sherlock tomorrow. He would pay him and his houseboy a visit. It was about time. And hopefully Sherlock would come over to him the next evening so he could remind him who his man was.

Tonight he wouldn’t have time for him either. A damn party with the rich and the stupid was waiting for him. And after that, he wouldn’t be in the mood for sex. He would be in the mood for an appointment with the punch bag in his training room...

*****

“You know, Sherlock...” John broke off, rearranging himself in his chair, and he cleared his throat.

Sherlock, having been busy with scrolling through the news sites on his phone to chase a possible case that was worth his time, tensed. “No,” he said. “I don’t.”

John chuckled. “Yeah, well. Kind of let you get away with it so far.”

“If that was convenient for both of us, you should go on with it by any means.” He didn’t have any doubt what John was (so far not) talking about. Mycroft…

When he had come home the next morning after their interrupted first night, John had watched him, nodded, and asked if he wanted to have breakfast. And Sherlock had not mentioned Mycroft when he had visited his brother these three times in the past three weeks, just telling John he would go out. And John had nodded and not asked him where he was going but Sherlock had seen the curiosity in his eyes. He had hoped John wouldn’t bring up this touchy subject but of course he had not really expected it. It was simply too weird and too interesting to let it slide for good…

John grinned now. “Okay. I get it. You don’t want to talk about him. Just...”

Sherlock sighed. “Just what?”

“You said you don’t have a boyfriend.”

Of course Sherlock had said that. And he hadn’t. Well, he did. Of course he did. Just not in an overly conventional way. It felt a little strange to call Mycroft his ‘boyfriend’. And not even because he was also his brother. More because he was… Mycroft… “I did, yes.” He could tell John he didn’t want to talk about this. He could simply change the subject. John might be an idiot but he wasn’t a fool. He would understand. But they were living together and Sherlock planned to continue this arrangement for the foreseeable future. He knew Mycroft hated it, of course he did. But his brother didn’t mention John when they met. In fact he hardly said anything at all, being all over him in an instant, not that Sherlock was complaining… They wouldn’t be able to meet again tonight either. But soon.

John nodded. “It wasn’t quite true though, was it? I mean… I get it why you said it. This is… um… unusual.”

Sherlock put his phone onto the table and leaned back in his chair. “That’s what we are. Both of us. Or do you disagree?”

“God no. In fact it’s the understatement of the century. That’s why? Because you are both so… incompatible with us mortals?”

Sherlock smiled. “Perhaps. Definitely one of the reasons. It started rather unexpectedly.”

“How old…” John broke off and shook his head. “None of my business.”

“I was nineteen. And totally messed up.” John knew about the drugs already, thanks to Lestrade and his stupid drugs bust…

John narrowed his eyes. “So he took advantage of...”

“No,” Sherlock interrupted him. “It was me who started it. And I wasn’t high. I was pissed off and angry at the entire world and… at him, too. But then...” He remembered this time vividly. Coming out of rehab, all tension and wrath and energy… They had clashed in ways unheard of. But he had enjoyed it. Damn – he still did. “He didn’t force me to do anything. He really didn’t have to.” He had been all over him, all the time. They had fucked until he had only been able to crawl. He had sucked him until he couldn’t open his mouth anymore as his jaws hurt so much. And he had still been craving for more. “It was very… intense. Still is. It’s not easy, this… thing between us though.” Speaking of understatements…

“That doesn’t surprise me in the least,” John mumbled. “Nobody ever found out?” He said it as if this was very hard to believe, and of course it was.

“Lestrade knows. He kidnapped him, too. And other people before him. He got a bit more careful after Lestrade but… I should have warned you, sorry.”

“Ah, it was okay. He didn’t even get loud. But he hates me, doesn’t he?”

“We don’t talk about you.”

“Oh, I see.” John grinned. “But I know he hates me. He thinks I’m a rival. Which I’m decidedly not. God, he must have been really pissed off if he read the newspapers this morning...”

Sherlock knew he had been. He had even texted Mycroft after lunch to check on his mood, and it had been awful. He had not mentioned these ridiculous rumours but Sherlock could read between the lines. Mycroft had not only been annoyed by having to go to this party tonight. He had been fuming about those ghastly hints.

He focused on John again. “And you’re okay with it? With us?”

“It’s really not my business, is it? And well, it’s been going on for, how long, ten years?”

“Quite so.”

“For a long time then. And no matter how… challenging he might be, I guess you’re happy with it, otherwise you wouldn’t do it.” There was a question in this statement, and Sherlock nodded.

Was he happy though? Well, certainly not always. What did that mean anyway? They had their very nice times, and they had their, like John had put it, challenging times as Mycroft was definitely a very challenging man. So was he, he assumed. “It never gets boring,” he settled for.

John burst out laughing. “I bet. What’s he actually doing, your brother?”

“If I just knew… Pulls the strings of the publicly powerful, I’d say. He likes to act in the shadows. And I bet he’s killed quite a few people.” He couldn’t quite keep the pride from his voice. Like a schoolgirl with a crush on a really bad boy...

John gulped. “Damn… Really?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Perhaps not personally, even though I could imagine that pretty well. But ordered it? State enemies? Terrorists? I bet. I wouldn’t mess with him. Well, I wouldn’t, if I wasn’t me...” Mycroft would never do anything to him. He was sure about it. He had provoked him often enough to be sure.

“Fuck… I really made some interesting friends… and enemies.” The doctor shook his head in awe.

“Most definitely.” Sherlock grabbed for his phone when it signalised a call. Lestrade! He listened for a moment before jumping up. “Come on. The game is on.”

*****

“What was that?” John had raised his head from his laptop. He had been typing away on his keyboard, certainly filing his blog, on this rainy morning.

“The doorknocker,” Sherlock said laconically.

“Okay, but nobody knocked. Damn, there are steps!” John had got up.

“It was straightened,” Sherlock said calmly. “And I assume he has a key.”

“He? Oh…”

“Oh indeed.” Sherlock smirked and then the door of the flat was unlocked, too.

Mycroft didn’t have to give away that he had they keys for 221B. He could have used the doorbell. But of course he wouldn’t do that… It was a demonstration of power, and what else was new?

“Good morning, gentlemen.” Mycroft leaned his umbrella against the wall.

He hadn't used it. It was raining like mad and his hair was wet just from the walk from the car to the door, and he always carried this umbrella with him but he never used it. No wonder everybody thought British upper class people were eccentric. Well, perhaps not all of them.

“You've got keys for our house and flat?” John stated the obvious.

“Of course I do,” Mycroft said without the hint of embarrassment. “I do hope I'm not interrupting your cosy morning?” he turned to Sherlock then.

Sherlock sighed. He was not _still_ jealous of John, was he? Had his brother really missed the stream of women John had dated over the past weeks? Sherlock was very sure he had not. “Not at all,” he said, ignoring the suggestive undertone of this question. He wouldn’t tell Mycroft that John knew about them .Well, if his dislike for John allowed him to, he would deduce it anyway. But sometimes Mycroft was blind towards certain conclusions. “Do you want some tea?”

“No, thank you. I happened to be in your area and just wanted to pay a friendly visit. Nice flat.”

He looked around, clearly seeing these rooms for the first time. Sherlock wondered why he hadn't come here already when the house was empty. He knew he should have invited his brother but this… this was his own realm. His and John's. Mycroft had to accept that.

“How was your party?” he asked, tapping against his cheekbone. He knew Mycroft loved them. He loved to slap his large cock against them. Sometimes he did that until he came, spurting into Sherlock's hair. It was a very messy outcome, so to speak, and he was glad Mycroft didn’t do it very often. He preferred catching his brother's seed with his mouth.

“Ghastly,” Mycroft said simply, his eyes darkening. “I'm sure you two had a lot more fun.”

“Listen, Mr Holmes, Mycroft.”

Sherlock winced when John started to speak, knowing he would say something Mycroft wouldn’t want to hear. He wanted to hear nothing from John but _'goodbye, I'm leaving Sherlock's life for good'_ and being called by his first name above all!

Mycroft turned to John like a snake ready to attack. “Yes, _John_?” he surprisingly let it pass for now.

“Sherlock and I – we're just friends. I have no interest in him in any romantic or sexual way whatsoever.”

Mycroft gave him a grim smile and Sherlock realised that he did know that John had figured it out. Had he really deduced that without even paying attention to John? No. He knew it because _he had heard their conversation_… How naïve and stupid to not think about that… Were there cameras all over the flat? Or just listening-devices? He supposed it was the latter. Cameras were harder to hide.

He glowered at Mycroft but his brother just shrugged and even had the impertinence to wink at him. He could have found the bugs if he really tried, could have removed them one by one and stomped onto them in front of one of Mycroft's street cameras. But then Mycroft would just have new ones placed. Better to accept them; he had nothing to hide anyway. He wouldn’t tell John about them. The doctor should just talk like he always did or Mycroft would get even more suspicious and think they were hiding something indeed if John started to watch his words. Ah, why did it have to be so complicated?! Why could Mycroft not just accept that he had a life beside him? He had never had sex or even wanted to have it with another person for all these years; one should think that would be proof enough that he was faithful.

He did understand it in a way though. Mycroft had no control over him when he was not with him and now he even shared his flat with another man, no matter how straight this man was. It had to irk Mycroft to no end. He was the most possessive man one could imagine. And he thought Sherlock was his possession. Which might as well be true… He tilted his head, narrowing his eyes, and Mycroft gave him a half-smile.

John was looking from one Holmes brother to the other, sensing their silent conversation but not being able to make anything of it. Well, he was a goldfish. A useful, loyal one but a goldfish.

“Well, I will leave you to you lazy morning then,” Mycroft said suavely and picked his umbrella up.

“Why didn’t you use it?” John asked him, looking at Mycroft's glistening black hair.

“Hm?” Mycroft turned to him. “Oh. The umbrella. It's not what it seems, Doctor Watson.” And with this cryptic statement he elegantly stalked out of the living room, the umbrella swinging at his arm, and left the flat.

“What does he mean?” John asked.

“I have no idea. I'm not to touch his precious umbrella.” _‘Even though I'm very well allowed to touch his almost equally long cock in any way I want to,’_ he did not add.

John looked a bit irritated but just mumbled something incoherently.

Sherlock registered the incoming text on his phone just a minute after Mycroft had left with no hint of surprise.

_Tonight, 8pm? M_

_Yes. SH_

_Fine. M_

Sherlock stored his phone and John stared at him. “That was him, right?”

“Yep.”

“And you… just…”

“Made an appointment with him for tonight, yes.”

“In about five seconds.”

“He is a very busy man.” Sherlock grinned and shook his head. “Don't even try to make sense of us, John. Not going to work.” He had tried to do this for years and eventually given up on it. It was what it was.

“I guess so.” John shook his head and turned his attention back to his blog.

*****

“Bugs, Mycroft? Really? Isn't that a new low, even for you?”

“Good evening to you, too, Sherlock. Kindly leave your shoes at the door, my housekeeper only scrubbed the floors this morning. Can I have your coat?”

Sherlock glowered at his totally cool brother. “Or are there even cameras? In my bedroom maybe? Do you get off on watching me wanking?” He was pretty sure there wasn’t though; he’d searched thoroughly.

“You don't wank, Sherlock,” Mycroft said calmly. “You don't have to because I take very good care of your needs.”

That was certainly true. But Sherlock didn’t even think of letting his brother change the subject. “Why don't you trust me when I tell you I have no interest whatsoever in John? He is very useful for my work and you have to admit he proved his loyalty for me very convincingly on the very first day!” He impatiently shrugged off his indeed not very clean shoes.

Mycroft sighed after hanging up Sherlock's coat. “Let's go into the living room; you can yell at me much more comfortably there.” He turned and led the way without even looking if Sherlock was following him. Which he did.

“I didn’t…” yelled Sherlock and shut his mouth abruptly, which elicited a small smile from his brother. It was Sherlock's turn to sigh. “Fine. Do you have some good whiskey?”

“That's like asking you if you've got cocaine.” The taller man entered the large living room of his large house. Everything was large about him. His height, his power, his cock, his ego… And his wish to control Sherlock… And his impertinence!

“Mycroft!”

“Ah, relax, Sherlock. I'm just kidding. You can have as much whiskey as you like and no, you haven't been high for quite some time.”

“And you know that because you control me all the time, right? You always know where I go.” And why did he realise this so embarrassingly late? Mycroft didn’t just use the street cameras or the ones in certain buildings or the bugs he had hidden in 221B. He had something placed on him that always told him where he was. In his phone? No, Sherlock had x-rayed that only recently. Mycroft certainly had access to the best of the best but he would have found that. The coat… Mycroft's generous present… Damn brother!

“Sit down.” Mycroft had poured them both a glass of whiskey, a very good one as Sherlock noticed, and let himself fall onto his – of course – large leather couch just to pat the spot next to him.

Sherlock was tempted to take an armchair instead but he didn’t find it worth the hassle to provoke Mycroft like this so he sat down next to him, and was pulled into a one-armed embrace at once. “Little brother,” Mycroft mumbled, burying his face in his hair and kissing his cheekbone, which sent a delighted shudder through Sherlock's body. “You must understand – I need to control you.”

“Yeah, I know… Because you're a fucking control freak.” Sherlock managed to reach his glass and took a sip of the nicely burning liquid.

“That's debatable,” Mycroft said, sounding unoffended. “But I'd prefer saying I need to because… nothing and nobody must ever take you away from me. No drug. No danger. No other man.”

“There has never been another man as you very well know, and there won’t be. And I can look after myself, Mycroft.” He knew it was pointless but he felt like trying at least.

“Most of the times you can,” Mycroft conceded to his surprise. “But there are other times…”

Sherlock knew he was right. There had been times when he had lost every bit of control about himself thoroughly. But he didn’t see them coming back. “I'm different now. For a long time. I have my cases.”

“Mm. But you've slipped a few times since working for Lestrade.”

As if Sherlock didn’t know that. He had only recently lost his appanage because of it after all. “Yeah, it did happen. But now John is looking after me and he won't have it.”

“So you do listen to him but not to me?” Mycroft didn’t sound upset. He sounded hurt.

Sherlock shook his head. “No, it's just that he is near me almost all the time now so there is no chance for me to… slip. And I guess it wouldn’t go down well with him. And yes, I do know you hate it, too. But… Sometimes I just… need to…” Sherlock stopped but Mycroft nodded.

“…break free from me, I'm aware. You don't feel this urge with John?”

“No, because he doesn’t think he owns me. He is a bit afraid of me.”

Mycroft shook his head. “I don't think so. Yes, he admires you to no end but I guess that will change eventually, when he noticed some of your… I wouldn’t say 'flaws' but…”

Sherlock had to agree. John hadn't seen too many of his cold and nasty sides so far. He was a high-functioning sociopath after all. He didn’t like people all that much. Funnily enough, Mycroft hated them even more and still his brother was so much better at blending in, if he chose to do so. “Yes, I guess that's inevitable. He's too decent to accept my darker sides easily.”

Mycroft bit his lip and Sherlock knew he was close to telling him something. It was highly astonishing that he didn’t do it right away. Mycroft always said whatever he wanted to say (if it didn’t seem likely to cause a diplomatic fallout, that is). “I don't like him,” he finally did say, and his tone was strident. “I want him to get away from you.” His voice had taken on a defensive tone.

Sherlock couldn’t suppress a sigh. “Mycroft, you are totally irrational! And it's not an option. I let you scare off Niles but you won't do that with John.” John had even accepted their incestuous relationship without much struggle. And Mycroft knew that!

Mycroft nodded as if he had not expected any other answer. “What if I told you that he had problems? In the army?” In the end he had obviously chosen to say what he had held back so far.

“Damn, Mycroft! You really try it in every way, right? I don't care what problems he had there. I know he's got PTSD. Many ex-soldiers have. He's fine now.”

“Well, you do know him a lot better. Do you wish to go upstairs now? Or go back to him?”

Sherlock was taken aback. Usually Mycroft didn’t ask. He knew he didn’t have to. “Upstairs.”

That brought him a smile. Mycroft downed his drink and Sherlock did the same, and then Mycroft grabbed his hand and guided him out of the room.

What a strange conversation this had been. Well, it had been with _Mycroft_. Jealous, possessive, irrational Mycroft. Dangerous Mycroft… “Don't do anything to him, Mycroft,” Sherlock said quietly when they had reached the stairs. “Just don't.”

His brother gave him a long look. “I won't if he doesn’t do anything that leaves me no other choice.”

This had to be enough, Sherlock supposed. It was all he could expect from his brother. Of course it would depend on Mycroft’s judgement what qualified for such action… And he certainly wouldn’t be able to keep him from it… He nodded and they went upstairs hand in hand.

Mycroft had given in rather easily. It was highly suspicious. But perhaps he was just afraid Sherlock could turn against him if he did anything to John.

Would he?

No. But that was something he wouldn’t let his brother know…

*****

While they were undressing face to face next to Mycroft's large bed, his brother was watching him with an indescribable look. It was strange, Sherlock thought. Sometimes he could read his brother like an open book – usually when Sherlock had done something he knew Mycroft disapproved of, like getting high or when big brother’s jealousy took over – but at other times, like right now, he was a complete mystery to him. What was he thinking now? Did he even want to have sex with him?

And then Mycroft all but crashed against him before he could take off underpants and socks, claiming his mouth in a fierce kiss, and at least this question was answered.

It was nice to be overpowered like this, Sherlock had to admit it. The rest of his clothing was impatiently removed from his body and then he was arranged on the bed with his knees more or less pressed against his face, and Mycroft went to town, licking him like there was no tomorrow, and there was absolutely nothing Sherlock would have wanted to do against it. But while Mycroft was lapping and nibbling and licking him, producing noises that would have given their mother an instant heart attack, he, despite his enormous arousal, caught himself wanting to return this favour. He had almost never done that. He could basically remember only one time, years ago.

“Mycroft,” he croaked out between moans and grunts.

His brother raised his head. His lips were swollen and wet. “Little brother?”

“I want to do that, too.”

“To me?” Mycroft looked stunned and Sherlock shook his head, which made his brother narrow his eyes.

“That was not negating your question,” Sherlock hurried to add, “it was merely a reaction to the stupidity of said question.”

Despite having been insulted, Mycroft grinned, and Sherlock could see a flash of relief in his face. “So you do want to do it to me?”

Since when was his brother so shy with words? And how could he doubt that Sherlock had meant him, who else, for God’s sake! “Yes, Mycroft. I want to lick your arse. Inside out. Is that clear enough?” Mycroft's face darkened again and Sherlock had no idea why. He sighed. “Okay, if you don’t like the idea, I won’t do it. I just wanted to taste and spoil you, too.”

He was surprised when his mercurial brother put his hand on his cheek and smiled. “Of course you can do it. After I fucked you?”

There was still an undertone in his voice that Sherlock didn’t understand. Did his brother fear he wanted to top him, and he loathed the idea? Sherlock had just recently thought his brother was missing out as being topped felt damn great, but he would have never suggested it. “Yes,” he said. “Fuck me hard.”

That was something Mycroft always liked to hear. “Oh, I’ll fuck you in two,” he promised, and Sherlock knew he probably could.

But when Mycroft had shoved his cock into him after finishing his preparation, he did take Sherlock hard, but as always, not too hard. It was a sweet pain that was ripping through Sherlock's body, and he was clinging to Mycroft during the wild, passionate ride, sometimes grabbing his pert behind and kneading it, and he was thoroughly satisfied in the end, and his brother had climaxed into him in hot spurts while riding him into oblivion.

And then Mycroft's phone chirped and his brother sighed but answered the call while slipping out of his hole with squelching noises, and when he had finished barking into the poor phone, he told Sherlock that he had to leave to take care of a stupid diplomatic emergency and they would meet again soon.

Sherlock nodded, refreshed himself, and left to get a cab to Baker Street as Mycroft's car would take him to another direction. And when he was sitting on the back seat, and sitting not overly comfortably after the hard pounding he had just received, he unconsciously licked his lips. One day he would get his brother’s firm, silky arse – not for pounding into it if Mycroft didn’t want that but for licking him into the sexual stratosphere.

When he reached Baker Street, he was close to dozing off, and he fell asleep at once when he had collapsed onto his bed, and his post-coital sleep was deep and filled with surprisingly pleasant dreams.

### Confrontation

“Damn. Sorry.” Mycroft gave his PA a sheepish look.

Anthea didn’t even flinch and stepped over the ball, consisting of another crumpled newspaper, that had been meant to hit the bin, not her when she had come into the room with a tray after a sharp knock. “A very unflattering picture of your brother for sure,” she remarked dryly, walking towards his desk.

“Quite.” Mycroft was very sure she knew he and Sherlock were fucking with each other even though he had of course never mentioned it, and neither had she. And no matter how much he desired his brother – he drew the line at doing anything with him out of the confinements of his own house. They could have taken a hotel room now and then, but what for? There would be a bed, and he had a fine one at home, and one without a mattress that had been soaked by the body fluids of countless other couples. And in his own realm he knew there was no possibility of spying on him. He didn’t fear serving prison time or losing his job for their incestuous affair but it would be a hassle to dispose of the eventual blackmailer's body that he liked to avoid.

They could go on holiday together though. Yes. They would do that very soon, he decided. Anthea would make sure their house or flat or whatever would be as safe as possible and even get them a new mattress. He should have thought of this long ago but he had always been busy… He still was but he would just do some work from afar then and send Anthea into his meetings for a week.

Something caught his attention when his PA put a plate and his mug onto his desk. “What have you done with your hand?”

Anthea balled her right hand to a fist and opened it again, grimacing. “Some guy got cheeky on the tube on my way here this morning.”

Mycroft smirked. “You took him out in the compartment?”

“No, sir. I waited until he got out and followed him. Used the elevator.”

“Ah. One or two black eyes?”

“Two. And he will have to see a dentist most urgently. Do you need anything else?”

_The head of the photographer who had sold this damn picture to the newspaper. Or even better: John Watson's head…_ “No, thank you. I…”

“Hello! Am I interrupting anything?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes in the same moment that Anthea did. He discreetly waved her out of his office. “No. Come in. Oh, you're in already…”

With a girlish little giggle, the new head of the MI6, Lady Elizabeth Smallwood, walked towards his desk, completely ignoring Anthea, who took the opposite direction. Mycroft caught his PA throwing her a rather nasty glare before she bent down to bin the sodding newspaper.

“Is there anything urgent?” He had things to do. He had to think about this photograph, for example… Sherlock and John caught trying to catch a murderer. They had fallen over one another on their chase like two kittens playing with each other, or two schoolboys having a little fight. Or a couple making out… Both were looking into the camera, John glowering at the man using it, Sherlock with an expression of… guilt?

Mycroft had not seen this little mishap live as he had been in a meeting. He didn’t observe his brother 24/7 after all; he was a very busy man. He would be informed if anything happened to his brother of course and if he did anything out of the ordinary (even though that was hard to define). His brother and his sidekick stumbling around like idiots and ending up in a pile wasn't worth informing him though and Sherlock hadn't texted him about it either, certainly hoping it wouldn’t end up in the papers. Well, it had, and it was a miracle the paper had not gone up in flames when he had laid eyes on it. Sherlock and John had found their ways into the papers (and the internet of course) quite often lately but this was the most embarrassing picture he had ever seen of them.

He tried (and failed) to focus on the blathering of the lady, who had sat down in the visitor's chair, seductively (or so she hoped obviously) crossing her legs. She always wore rather short skirts, brave for her age, and she could afford it, Mycroft supposed, being in pretty good shape. She obviously completely missed that her efforts and goods were wasted on Mycroft.

It had stunned him in the beginning – this woman did not only miss he was gay, she seemed to be attracted by his coldness and bad reputation. Mycroft was well aware he was not exactly popular around his minions, his so-called colleagues and his questionable boss, the stupidest PM Downing Street had ever seen. People feared him and that was how he liked it. He had several MI5 agents at hand though who were remarkably trustworthy and could be used discreetly when he had a rather delicate matter to take care of. He also knew his enormous brain, put to such good use, was guaranteeing him that nobody would ever remove him from his position.

Not that this would have been a drama. He was a very rich man, a lot richer than even Sherlock suspected. He was wealthy thanks to his family but he had also earned a fortune of his own, not only for his government work, not by far. He had a good hand with investments of all sorts, and he used it thoroughly. If he lost his job tomorrow, he would be grumpy because no matter how stressful it was, it meant power and influence and scared people, and he enjoyed it, but he would not need the Salvation Army to pull through. Of course he could find another job in no time but he wouldn’t have to work for a single day in his life if he didn’t want to, and Sherlock wouldn’t either, and why did his brother insist on playing detective and who knew what else with John Bloody Watson?! That he never heard them doing anything indecent in their flat meant nothing; after all Sherlock knew there were bugs there so he could as well have them removed again… If Sherlock wanted to hide an affair with the doctor from him, cunning little brother would find a way! He hadn’t looked disgusted, being entangled with the blond dwarf; he had rather looked caught!

He winced when the lady put her hand onto his arm, crossing a line that nobody dared. She had done the same at this sodding party some weeks ago where they had met for the first time, and he had stepped back at once, feeling disgusted. She was allegedly smart but she had missed even that, and she didn’t seem to notice when he quickly removed his arm now as well.

“I would love to go there with you for a weekend,” she said in a deep voice now, probably thinking it sounded seductive.

As he hadn't listened, not even with half an ear since he hadn't heard any keyword that would have shown him he had to pay attention, he had no idea what she was talking about. But of course it didn’t matter. “Why don't you take your husband with you?” he asked in a bored tone.

She huffed out a little laugh. “My husband, yes. He doesn't really notice me anymore. His secretary is more interesting for him these days…”

Mycroft couldn’t blame him. And he could right-out see the woman – young, blonde, dumb, hardly able to type a word but boobs like melons. Or perhaps this picture was just a stupid cliché, who knew. He had never understood heterosexual people nor had he any interest in their dull affairs. “Well, that's a shame. Was there anything work-related you wish to discuss?” He didn’t have time for this nonsense. He wanted to talk to Sherlock now. What was his brother thinking, having such a picture taken and then not even telling him about it? Was he… He winced when a foot touched his ankle. She had seriously taken off her shoe and was stroking his foot under the desk.

He put his leg out of her reach by simply standing up. “If there is nothing else, please leave now.” Probably he wouldn’t have been so polite if he hadn't been so distracted.

She got up, her lips tight. But she wasn't willing to give up. “You're missing out. I could give you the best ride ever, right here on your chair.”

Well, that was going a tad too far now. He leaned forward, his hands resting on the top of his desk. “I don't think so. Actually I would rather remove my kneecaps with my bare hands than fuck you.”

She flushed furiously and shot a deadly glare at him. “You impolite, impotent bastard!”

Mycroft laughed heartily. “Impotent! I hear that one for the first time.” His laugh died and he narrowed his eyes at her in a way he knew made people shiver, and he was delighted to see her flinch. “You've overstepped every mark, Lady Smallwood. We have to work together and we will, but never dare make a move on me again, or I'll make sure you've worked in this building for the last day.” He had seen her file. She was competent for sure. But if necessary, he would literally kick her out. And he even had some dirt on her, if required. Her husband surely liked his women _very_ young, at least the ones he was not married to… Well, _she_ had brought the money into the marriage.

She seemed to be searching for words, not overly kind words he was sure, but then she just stormed off and tried to smash the door, but it was designed to close very softly, and it did its job as always, certainly infuriating her even more.

Anthea showed up when he had just drunk his now lukewarm tea and taken the plate with the scone she had brought him as well. “What an annoying person!”

“Horrible,” he agreed and bit into the scone.

“You will have a meeting in two hours with Lord Jenson.”

Mycroft nodded, finished the scone and got up again, reaching for his coat. “I'll be back in time. And if there is anything urgent, don't hesitate to call me.”

“Of course, sir. I'll get the car.”

She didn’t ask where he wanted to go as she obviously knew it. She was smart, his trusted PA. “Better put some ice on your hand,” he said when he walked past her desk.

She smiled. “It's fine, sir, but thank you.”

He winked at her and left, and when he stalked through the hallways of Whitehall, he had already forgotten about the confrontation with Lady Smallwood and his thoughts were focused on Sherlock and this sodding photograph and blasted John Watson again.

*****

Sherlock winced when he heard the unmistakable sound of a doorknocker getting straightened with some force.

“Your brother, huh?” John said and sipped at his tea.

“Yep.”

“Wonder what took him so long.”

They listened to Mycroft clattering up the stairs. Sherlock would have expected him earlier as well, but obviously he had been tied up and not got to read the darned newspaper before.

“I told you to let him know about it,” John remarked and straightened his back.

“That would have only meant two explosions instead of one.” Because seeing such a suggestive picture had to cause Mycroft having a fit, no matter if he had known about it beforehand or not. Sherlock was surprised he had not received a text or call instantly, but then, obviously Mycroft had come here as soon as he could.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Mycroft said when he burst into the living room, looking thoroughly pissed off, his voice dripping with sarcasm, but before anyone could answer him, the door was pushed open again.

“How can you have keys to my house?” Mrs Hudson spat out. “And who are you at all?!”

Sherlock got up before Mycroft could put his hands around her neck; the clouds on his face had darkened even more when she had started to talk. “Mrs Hudson, this is my brother, Mycroft Holmes. My landlady, Mrs Hudson.”

“I know who she is,” Mycroft snarled.

“Oh, your brother, of course. So?” She crossed her arms and glowered at him, obviously not intimidated by his impressive height and dark charisma.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and turned to Sherlock without gracing her with an answer. “So?” he – probably unconsciously – repeated Mrs Hudson’s question, if one wanted to call it that. He even mimicked her gesture of crossing his arms.

Sherlock sighed. “Do sit down. I’ll make you tea.”

“I don’t want tea!” Mycroft hissed. “I want an explanation!”

John shook his head, grimacing. “We just fell! Nobody’s fault. The bad thing was that it was caught on camera. We look like two total idiots...”

“No, in fact you look...” Mycroft began but Mrs Hudson’s rather shrill voice interrupted whatever he had wanted to say, not that it took a tough deduction to figure it out.

“…like the happy couple you are!” she said, clearly meaning every word, and Sherlock groaned.

“We are _not_! How often do we have to tell you this?!” He was looking at Mycroft when he said this though, and he could see that he either believed that he and John were more than friends, colleagues and flatmates, too, or at least seriously considered it. How could he?!

“Really, Mrs Hudson,” John said, “I’m not gay and Sherlock wouldn’t take me if I was the last man on earth.”

“You can’t fool me,” she said, shaking her head. “I can sense love when it’s in the air.”

Obviously she definitely couldn’t, as she imagined it between Sherlock and John and totally missed it between Sherlock and Mycroft… To be fair, in his current state Mycroft didn’t exactly came across like a man in love and that was actually better as Sherlock didn’t want to test Mrs Hudson’s loyalty by letting her know about their relationship, and she would probably be crazy enough to accuse Mycroft of having taken advantage of him or shit like this, and Mycroft would then break her neck with one hand and call Anthea to get rid of the body. In fact he looked angry enough to kill both John and Mrs Hudson on the spot, and then find out the address of the photographer, if he hadn’t done that already, easiest thing in the world for him, and go to him and kill him as well.

And Sherlock realised it had been stupid and careless to not go to him the previous evening and make sure to reassure him of his faithfulness, no matter that Mycroft should really be aware of it after all those years. “Stop it, Mrs Hudson,” he said now, raising his deep voice. “John and I are not a couple and we will never be. Mycroft, come with me, we need to talk about this, this case.”

For a moment he feared Mycroft would ask ‘which case?’ but even in his anger and jealousy, Mycroft was thinking clearly enough. He stormed off and Sherlock hurried to follow him and to close and lock his bedroom door as soon as he had slipped into the room.

“Mycroft, listen to me. Yes, I should have told you about this but I thought this stupid picture would never make it into the press.” It was a highly unanticipated and not at all welcome surprise how much the media liked to print or show articles about them since he and John had found that damn painting. Sherlock had always flown under the radar before but now he was right-out famous and that was thoroughly not good, no matter that it had brought him a lot more clients.

“You mean you _hoped _it wouldn’t!”

Sherlock pushed Mycroft backwards so he sat down on his bed. “Yes, maybe I did. Because I knew you would make a scene for no reason whatsoever. It looks weird, I give you that, but it was nothing but two men trying to follow someone and then bump together and fall down, and believe me, I could have done without John’s elbow in my gut!”

“Fine, you probably weren’t about to start fucking on the street, but you heard her! She is convinced you are together!”

Sherlock threw his hands in the air. “She’s an old woman, obsessed with gay men, and she wants a gay couple in her flat because her neighbour, Mrs Turner, has one too. Damn, Mycroft, you bugged the whole flat, didn’t you?! You would know if anything like this went on!”

Mycroft pouted. “You are smart. You can find a way. Perhaps you do it somewhere else.”

Which meant he didn’t have bugs on Sherlock himself, which was quite a relief. Not because he had anything to hide but still he didn’t want his brother to hear every word he was saying or listen to him farting or using the loo… Sherlock sighed. “I thought _you_ were the smart one! I could never deceive you like this, and no, it never even crossed my mind! John is a friend, nothing else, and I don’t care what people think about us!” Mycroft bit his lip and Sherlock sat down next to him, patting his arm. “Of course I care what _you_ think but you have to trust me.” Trust… A foreign concept for his brother, ever had been… In his line of work everybody was betraying everybody, perhaps it was normal to develop paranoia then towards the whole world. But Sherlock was not the whole world. He was his brother, lover and partner, and they could be happy if Mycroft would just stop behaving so completely irrationally.

Mycroft just grumbled something incoherent but he didn’t ooze that much wrath anymore.

He could still hear Mrs Hudson’s voice and wished John would get rid of her. He adored her but it had obviously been hatred at first sight between her and Mycroft, and he wasn’t keen on letting Mycroft leave his bedroom to meet her again. And with her just a few rooms away he couldn’t be a bit nice to Mycroft… Not that he felt that comfortable doing that with John in the same flat but Mrs Hudson made it totally impossible… But he brushed a kiss onto Mycroft's cheek. “I’m your man, Mycroft, nobody else’s. And tonight I’ll come over and lick your arse.”

Mycroft's eyes widened. “I knew it!”

“What? What are you talking about?” And why had he brought this up again, in such a tense situation above all, after Mycroft had reacted so strangely the last time? Perhaps he was just as crazy as his brother.

“You want to top me!”

“Huh? Well, I would, if you let me because…” _‘I’m sure you would enjoy it if you just let go,’_ he wasn’t able to add as Mycroft shot up from the bed, pointing at him.

“You want to fuck John! That’s why you insist on living with him!” he accused, and Sherlock had no idea what the two matters had to do with each other. Obviously Mycroft had developed the idée fixe that John had woken up the wish in Sherlock to be on top just because he wanted to rim him, Mycroft. It was simply absurd.

“We were talking about you, not John! I don’t want him, doesn’t that get into your stupid head!” Sherlock yelled, and his eyes widened when Mycroft’s right hand twitched and balled into a fist. He wouldn’t punch him, would he?

Mycroft swallowed and his face fell and turned completely white; it was a horrible sight. All at once he looked twenty years older. His fingers opened again and all energy seemed to leave him.

Sherlock’s brain was spinning. This was too much! And now Mrs Hudson, if she was still there, probably knew about their relationship as he had become so loud. And what the hell was Mycroft dreaming up in his jealous brain? “This can’t go on,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re reacting completely and utterly absurdly and you just destroy everything.”

“So you are leaving me?” Mycroft rasped out, his eyes bulging out of his sockets as if his worst nightmare had come true.

Sherlock didn’t plan to do anything like that but Mycroft had to see they couldn’t go on like this. He had endured his jealousy for ten years now and it had just been getting worse and worse since he had met John. And had his brother really been about to hit him? Sherlock would have sworn Mycroft would never hurt him but he was obviously so far gone that it had become an option. He hadn't done it of course but it had been a moment Sherlock wouldn’t want to repeat. “We need a break I think,” he slowly said.

Mycroft tumbled to the door as if he had been shot. “I see. He has won.”

“Oh stop it! It’s because of you, not John!”

Mycroft just nodded and then he was gone, and Sherlock stood frozen on the spot until he heard the door of 221B getting opened and then quietly closed, and he knew he had just shattered his brother’s heart and his own one in the go.

*****

_I didn’t say I’m leaving you. SH_

_I said we can’t go on like this. SH_

_I let you drive Niles from my life. I never even tried to make any friends after him. SH_

_But I can’t give John up. He is my friend and we work together so well. SH_

_He accepts all my flaws and yes, he gets a bit impatient at times but all in all, he is very tolerant. SH_

_He is a friend, and a good one, and that is it. He will never be anything else! SH_

_That I want to lick you has nothing to do with John. If you never want to be on bottom, it’s totally fine but I thought you would like being rimmed and perhaps you would even enjoy being penetrated. SH_

_You are… You know how much you mean to me. SH_

_But you are suffocating me sometimes. You hurt me and you hurt yourself with these unjustified accusations. SH_

_Please… Think about it… Try to trust me. SH_

_Let’s say we meet in three days from now and talk. And have sex. You are the only man I want. But I need a partner, not someone who wants to crush everybody I have contact with. SH_

_I’m sorry. SH_

*****

Mycroft stared at Sherlock's texts again and again. His right hand was clamped around a glass of whiskey.

He had not returned to work. He had told Anthea to cancel his appointments for the rest of the day and he had stared out of the window of the car that had driven him home without seeing anything.

And now he was sitting in his armchair, feeling as if his heart had been ripped out. Sherlock didn't want to see him. Yes, he said he would, in three days, which sounded like an eternity, but what for? To tell him again how horrible he was? And his praising of fucking John Watson. Who was obviously everything Mycroft was not.

He had, for a second, felt a rage in him that had disturbed him more than Sherlock. That's what John Watson was doing to them and Sherlock insisted on going on living with him.

He downed his drink and kept sitting in silence. He didn't answer Sherlock. And when he finally got up to go to bed, he realised his cheeks were wet.

*****

Sherlock blew his nose. By now it had to look like a raw wound.

When Mycroft had been gone and he had been finally able to move, he had stumbled out of his bedroom. In the living room he had only found John, who had looked alarmed and urged him to sit down. He had patted Sherlock’s shoulder and asked him what had happened, but Sherlock had not said a word, knowing if he did, he would start crying like a fountain.

Which he had indeed done as soon as he had retreated into his bedroom, having told John without words he wanted to be alone now.

And he had fired off texts to his brother, one by one. Unable to put it words what he really felt. He had criticised his brother. He had told him he was the only one for him.

He had started writing those three words that neither of them had ever spoken out but deleted them again, sobbing some more. He loved Mycroft and there was no doubt whatsoever that Mycroft loved him as well, probably a bit too much. But was that love? Or fear to lose his possession? But Sherlock knew that wasn’t fair. Mycroft was Mycroft. He wouldn’t change. But his gratuitous accusations and fears were hurting them both, and they were hurting their already challenging relationship. If Mycroft didn’t trust him with John even though he could hear every bloody word they were saying in their flat, what was Sherlock’s love for him worth in the end?

He didn’t want to lose him and he would fight for this relationship. But Mycroft had needed this stop sign and he needed to think about his own behaviour. Sherlock had let him get away with it for very long. Probably too long…

But he knew Mycroft was hurt and shocked now and it broke his heart. So he wrote another text. Still he wasn’t able to write what he probably should have.

_Let me know you are all right. Please. If you have bugs in my bedroom, too, you must have heard that I’ve been crying my eyes out. I won’t sleep a minute if you don’t answer me. SH_

And it took his brother only a minute to reply.

_Don’t worry, brother mine. See you in three days. M_

And Sherlock's fingers were itching to write back that he loved him, but in the end he didn’t send another text but snuggled up on his bed, trying to find sleep. He didn’t want to write these words when he used them for the first time. He could have said them to his empty room, not knowing if Mycroft would actually hear them. But he wanted to wait until they were together again, and in a different way.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This part is the case. It is influenced by the one of The Blind Banker but changed a lot. And I suck at writing case fics so be gentle with me :)

### Approaches

“I hate to leave you alone in this state.”

Sherlock looked up from his phone. He had been staring at it for minutes, or hours, who could tell, not seeing anything. He only realised now that John was dressed differently. More formal. A slim shirt instead of his usual ridiculous jumpers. Neat black trousers instead of jeans. He looked like…

“It's today, my job interview.” John tilted his head. “At the clinic?” He made a waving gesture. “Don't tell me. You deleted it. Like the solar system.”

He was probably right. Didn't matter. “A job. You already have a job. With me.”

“Yes, mate, and you know I love it. Adventures and all. Very exciting. But the pay is not that great.”

Sherlock had to concede this. He did take money from his private clients. He had to, at least until his trust was willing to give him his appanage back. He still didn’t take anything from the police though. With all his sudden popularity, Lestrade couldn’t hide anymore that he used him as a consultant. But it was still something different if a consultant was paid by the taxpayers. Probably the Met had no budget for consulting detectives… So John would work as a doctor again. Well, there wasn't much he could say against that. Even if his brain hadn't felt like jelly at the moment.

He had hardly slept this night. He had been thinking of Mycroft. He had been crying some more. And when he had finally fallen into a restless slumber, he had been dreaming of Mycroft accusing him of cheating on him, and then his brother had reached up and scratched his own eyes out so he didn’t have to see his treacherous lover anymore. Sherlock had woken up with a scream stuck in his throat.

John was watching him with a concerned expression. “Well, I have my army pension, and it's fine for the rent. But I need to eat sometimes and…”

“It's okay. Just go. I'm fine.”

John sighed. “You are most definitely not. I'm glad I got rid of Mrs Hudson before the shouting began. I'm so sorry. Never meant to cause you that kind of trouble.”

“It's not your fault,” Sherlock mumbled. Was Mycroft listening to them? Or didn’t he waste his time on him anymore? He had not texted Sherlock this morning. It was as if he was gone. And it felt horrible.

“You will see him again, right? Soon?”

Sherlock found it rather touching that John worried so much about him and his troubled relationship. Or he was just afraid of a constantly sulking, sexually frustrated flatmate who would be even ruder than usual… He nodded. “Yes. Sure. I… miss him.”

“Then go to him! Right now! He'll be at work I guess.”

Sherlock shook his head. “Two more days. We agreed on that.” Had they really? He had told Mycroft they would meet then and Mycroft had referred to it in the only text he had written him back. But would he want to see him at all? Sherlock couldn’t tell, and it killed him. He really didn’t know Mycroft as well as he should after all those years…

“What will you be doing?”

“Huh?”

“While I'm gone?”

“Oh. I… I guess I will try again to find this Moriarty the cabbie spoke about.” The great mystery. The name the dying man had shouted when Sherlock had, well, tortured him. Was it a man? An organisation? So far Sherlock had not had any luck. Whatever or whoever this Moriarty was – the name was not being written down. His homeless network had never heard it.

And of course he wouldn’t be trying at all today. He felt like doing nothing. He felt like nothing. Had he lost his brother forever?

“Man, I've never felt as deeply for anyone as you two do for each other,” John mumbled. “You are as obsessed with him as he is with you.”

Sherlock stared at him and didn’t even blink for too long. But he had to admit that John was right. And he wondered if Mycroft had heard him and if it would make him want to see him and talk and sort everything out with him.

*****

Mycroft had not slept in this night. He had not even been thinking a lot either. He had suffered. In the morning he had crawled out of his bed, feeling shattered in every way.

All he had ever wanted was to protect Sherlock and make sure he was safe. Fine, he was a tad overbearing. An inner voice in his head laughed heartily about this. He was jealous, so what? Sherlock was beautiful. He was fascinating. Everybody would want to have him. Even this mouse in the pathology. He still didn’t fully trust Lestrade to keep his eyes and hands off his brother. So far he had done it. But Sherlock was irresistible. He could have anyone.

And now he had driven him away. Sure, Sherlock was very sad now and he had heard him crying. But those tears would dry. Someone would come and dry them. What would he do then?

Take him out, obviously. He wouldn't let go of Sherlock. But he would not break his iron rule: nothing against baby brother's will. Sherlock wanted three days without him. He would get them.

John Watson's words were echoing in his ears: _‘You are as obsessed with him as he is with you.’_ Was that really true? He would love to believe it. He would love to be with Sherlock right now.

He hammered his fist onto his desk, sending his pen onto the floor.

He didn’t get much work done on this morning.

*****

“Don't tell me you haven't moved since I left.”

Sherlock looked up to him. His eyelids felt very heavy. He had texted Mycroft, asking him how he was after a few hours of sitting frozen on the spot.

Mycroft had laconically replied, _‘Fine’_. Sherlock had not tried it again.

“Sure I moved. Had to go to the loo.”

John sighed. “Go to him already! Or call him at least?” Sherlock just shrugged and John sighed again. “By the way, thanks for asking: I've got the job.”

Sherlock nodded. “Good. Great.”

“Yeah. Kind of looks good, this clinic. And tonight I’m meeting my new boss. She’s amazing, too.” A silly grin appeared on his face.

Another date with another woman. And his boss above all? “Doesn’t seem like a great idea if you ask me. You’ll have to work with her when it goes wrong.” He had never been in such a situation but he didn’t imagine it to be very appealing.

John huffed out a laugh. “_’When’_ it goes wrong? Thanks for your trust.”

Sherlock had seen him getting prepared for one date after the other. Always with another woman, or so he seemed to remember. He hadn’t really cared. He shrugged, and it seemed to annoy John.

“Right, the relationship expert is speaking…”

Sherlock bit his lip and stood up. His legs were stiff from sitting for way too long.

“Hey, sorry, didn’t mean it like this.” John sighed. “I know you’d like me to be around 24/7 to solve cases with you and do the housework and the shopping and pet you…”

“I never said that!” Sherlock hissed, panicking.

“Yeah, didn’t really have to. You think I'm kind of your property, well, it’s no wonder, you don’t know it any differently.”

“Our friendship has nothing in common with my relationship!” Sherlock snarled. God, if Mycroft heard this, if he was still listening at all, he would just draw wrong conclusions again!

“It’s all right, calm down,” John waved his wrath away. “Anyway, I have a date tonight.”

“Fine. Good for you!”

“Damn, go to your brother! Perhaps you just have to get laid again, bet you love it really rough!”

Sherlock stared at him, speechless. Then he stormed to the wardrobe, ripped his coat off of it and left the flat, ignoring John’s apologies and pleas to stay.

*****

When Sherlock entered Anthea’s office, she looked highly unamused. Not about him though. A scrawny man was standing in front of her desk, gesticulating hectically.

“He cancelled our meeting yesterday! I must speak with him now!” he demanded, his thick glasses threatening to slide from his nose.

“I already told him you are here. He doesn’t have time for you now. Oh, hello, Sherlock. Just one moment.” She took her phone and after twenty seconds, she nodded at him. “Just go through.”

Sherlock, feeling numb and exhausted, nodded, too and strode towards Mycroft's office door.

Not very surprisingly, the other man protested fiercely. “I was here before! I insist on...”

“I will talk to you later, Lord Jenson.” Mycroft had appeared in the door frame, scanning the situation with one look.

“But I have to...”

“Later,” Mycroft said, his voice dangerously quiet, and he made way for Sherlock to enter his office and closed the door behind himself when he stepped back.

Sherlock stood in the middle of the room, the tears he had heroically been holding back on his way here pooling in his eyes. “Mycroft...”

“I heard you had a little argument with your doctor,” Mycroft said, his voice calm.

“I did but I’m not here because of that!” Sherlock felt desperate, the tears running down his cheeks now.

Mycroft let himself fall into his chair. “Oh little brother. Come here.”

Sherlock was sitting on his lap the next moment, not caring what would happen if the pissed-off lord decided to enter this room despite having been told to stay off.

He felt a long arm loosely enveloping him. “Here.” Mycroft offered him a handkerchief.

His gestures were… brotherly. Just that. He didn’t kiss Sherlock, didn’t squeeze his waist. Nothing in his behaviour indicated he still felt like Sherlock's lover.

It was devastating. “Don’t leave me,” Sherlock sobbed, burying his snotty face against Mycroft's neck, giving a damn about how needy and silly he might appear.

And eventually he felt the pressure of Mycroft's arms around him and a kissed was pressed onto his head. “Calm down, Sherlock. You and John will be okay.”

“Sod John!” Sherlock flared, his hands digging into Mycroft's shoulders. “You don’t really think it’s because of him!”

“Well, I know how important he is to you.”

Sherlock knew he was being manipulated. But he could also see the pain in his brother’s eyes. He sighed and slumped heavily against his lover. “Don’t do that, Mycroft. I know I hurt you and I’m sorry. All I want is your trust. I think I earned it over all those years, didn’t I? I don’t want you to be jealous for no reason, that’s all.” All at once he felt tremendously exhausted, the almost completely sleepless night taking its toll. It was something else if he stayed up all night for a case. This had just been torture and it still was.

He looked up to his brother, pleadingly. “I don’t want to lose you over this.” If he had heard his conversation with John, he had probably heard the doctor’s remark about their mutual obsession as well.

Mycroft nodded, but his lips were a tight line. “You’ve been working on your cases alone for five years. What do you suddenly need him for?”

Sherlock didn’t know how to explain it. He had always worked on his own, lived on his own. But John with his loyalty and support and medical knowledge and his… presence in his life was so… normal? Was it that? What he and Mycroft had was as far from being normal as it could get. John was dull, in a way. He did have some depths, certainly. But all in all he was just a regular guy, and he grounded Sherlock in ways nobody had ever done. But…

“If you really want it, I will kick him out of my life,” Sherlock said, sounding impossibly tired to his own ears.

“And you will resent me for it forever,” Mycroft said darkly and shook his head. “Keep him,” he decided, sounding as if he was talking about a stray cat. “But… Never mind.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock whispered, and he finally used the handkerchief to wipe his face and then his lips searched for Mycroft's, and his brother indulged him for a moment and kissed him back, breaking his own unspoken rule about not doing anything unbrotherly with him in his office. Then he urged Sherlock to stand up. “I need to speak to this moron out there now, little brother.”

Reluctantly Sherlock slid from his lap. “Can I see you tonight?” He really didn’t want to wait any longer, sod his own suggestion.

And finally Mycroft smiled. “Yes. Of course. Come over around eight, okay?”

Sherlock's knees got weak with relief. “I will be there. Mycroft...”

His brother tilted his head and his eyes were soft. “Yes?”

“I… love you.”

For a brief moment, Mycroft looked completely shocked and then his eyes brightened up in a way that made Sherlock's heartbeat come to a sudden halt. He put his large hands on Sherlock's cheeks and kissed him soundly on the lips. “Thank you, little brother.”

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment. “Do you…” He broke off. What a stupid question this would have been. Of course Mycroft loved him. There had never been any doubt about it. But still… He had said it. He wanted to hear it.

Mycroft smiled. “Love you? Of course I do. I love you like crazy.”

When Sherlock left his office, his legs were barely carrying him. They had been together for so long, and of course Sherlock didn’t think their problems could be solved just by saying these words to each other and Mycroft allowing him to go on living with John, but it felt as if it was the first day, and it was a bloody good feeling.

*****

“Meeting Sarah again?” The third date in three days. A world record for John, at least since Sherlock had known him.

“Yep. Meeting big brother again?” John smirked.

They had not exactly talked about their, well, disagreement. Sherlock had come home from visiting Mycroft and hadn't been able to suppress his silly smile, and John had been surprised at first but then nodded, smiling.

It was all good now, Sherlock assumed. As good as possible.

He and Mycroft had spent the last two evenings together, and neither of them had mentioned John or Mycroft's jealousy problems. The fact that he tended to be a little too overbearing towards Sherlock. Their short-lived split-up.

But it had been nice. Nicer than ever, Sherlock thought. The sex a bit less rough but every bit as satisfying. More kissing. And these words again… Sherlock hoped it would stay like this and only get better, not back to what had made them row. But he was a rational man, mostly at least. He knew his brother would not miraculously change his personality that much. And didn’t he also feel a bit flattered by his possessiveness? He had accepted it for long enough after all. He might have complained and made scenes but deep inside he had long been taking for granted that he was Mycroft's property, as awful as this sounded. It wasn't really awful for him. Well, sometimes it had been, certainly, and it had to come out at some point.

He was very glad Mycroft had paid heed to his pleading, and he would enjoy his calmer, tenderer brother as long as it lasted. He was too smart to believe there wouldn't come other times again…

“Yes. Meeting big brother.” He and John shared a grin, and then they took their jacket respectively coat and left 221B Baker Street to go their separate ways for this evening.

*****

Mycroft was on the phone when he arrived, and when he secured the door after Sherlock had entered the house, he rolled his eyes in this typical Mycroftian way that never failed to make Sherlock grin – at least as long as it wasn’t directed at him, which didn’t happen very often. “I am sure you will be able to deal with this problem, sir. If there are any more inconveniences tomorrow, I will take care of them…” He squeezed Sherlock's waist. “No. I won't be available tonight.”

Sherlock brushed a kiss on his cheek, and almost squeaked when Mycroft's arm pressed him even tighter while he was still talking into the phone.

His brother gave him an admonishing look but his eyes were sparkling while he finished his obviously annoying phone call. “Damn people,” he said then.

“Hateful, aren't they?”

“Very.” Mycroft stored his phone in the pocket of his waistcoat and kissed him on the mouth. “No cases tonight?”

“No.” He had switched off his phone before entering his brother's house. No cases indeed. “I won't be available tonight either. Well, except for you, that is.” He was very aware of Mycroft's arm around him, of his expensive eau de cologne, of the warmth of his body, his breath that smelt like tea and mint.

“Good to know, little brother. I hadn't had a chance to have dinner. I know you don't eat but maybe you'd like to keep me company?” Mycroft raised his eyebrows at him.

“Sure. Perhaps I am a bit hungry as well.”

“I'll gladly share my meal with you,” Mycroft assured him, and they went over to the dining room with their arms wrapped around each other.

Was it really so easy to get along so much better? Had it only needed a row and some clear words to set things right between them? But then – he had told Mycroft to stop being jealous for ages and his brother had never listened.

But now Sherlock felt more at ease in his presence than he'd had for a very long time. “Can we…share a bath afterwards? And no,” he hurried to add, “I'm not asking because I think you need one.”

Mycroft chuckled. “We can do that.”

“Great. I love you.” Since he had said it for the first time, it had become so much easier.

Mycroft stopped walking and pulled him in for a kiss. “I love you, too, little brother. My handsome man.”

And there had only been a very light emphasize on the first word of that second sentence. They were getting somewhere. They were doing fine.

*****

Sherlock crawled under the blanket, shivering after the hot bath they had taken together and hastening from the bathroom to the bedroom after quickly drying himself off.

“Cold, little brother?” Mycroft teased him, standing next to the bed in full naked glory, in no hurry to cover himself in order to get warm as well.

He never seemed to freeze. He was like a monument, Sherlock thought. All control over his brain and body – at least until he lost it because of him… He was his big brother’s only weakness. And didn't it feel bloody good to know that? He knew he was the only person in this world that mattered to his brother, apart from his PA maybe, but Sherlock was sure he didn't like Anthea that much; she was just very efficient and extremely loyal, and Mycroft certainly appreciated this. But for him, Sherlock, his brother would do anything. Anything but letting him go, and Sherlock had never seriously wanted that. He had just wanted a bit more freedom and his brother’s trust, and he seemed to have finally got it.

“Yes,” he said now. “You must warm me up.”

“I could turn the heat up,” Mycroft suggested while sitting down on the bed.

“No heating,” Sherlock mumbled. “Warm, hairy body.”

Mycroft laughed out loud and joined him under the blanket. “That’s what you want, I see. Furry big brother, hm? Caveman Mycroft?”

Sherlock immediately wrapped his arms around his waist and snuggled against him with his full length. “Mm, big bad caveman.”

“At your service.” Mycroft's hands slid up and down his back, and he groaned when Sherlock's groin rubbed against his own.

Sherlock was horny. Very much so. He had enjoyed sharing a bath with his lover, sitting between his bent legs, having his back and hair washed and being generally petted. They had not been talking a lot but Sherlock could feel how Mycroft gradually relaxed in the hot water, holding him, having him surrendered to his care. But in fact Sherlock had surrendered to him long ago, hadn’t he? He might have snarled and complained but in fact there had never been a question of seriously opposing Mycroft's obsession for him with all the consequences included in it. Mycroft wouldn’t let him get away and Sherlock didn’t crave for getting away, bottom line. If things could just stay as they were now, though. This was just so nice…

He nibbled at Mycroft's neck and moaned when his brother started to knead his globes none too gently but just right, his long middle finger teasing his hole whenever it came near it. So far Sherlock had made no further attempt at even suggesting exploring his lover’s canal, not even with his tongue, and he knew he wouldn’t do that so soon again. He still didn’t quite know what was the big deal for Mycroft but of course it had to do with his jealousy of John. But Sherlock hoped would soon be over for good. John seemed to be very fond of his new flame and that should convince Mycroft that he didn’t want anything from Sherlock other than his friendship, and why he should think Sherlock would desire John was beyond him anyway. John with his barely average cock and almost a head shorter than him – Mycroft couldn’t seriously think he was Sherlock's type. Well, Sherlock’s type was _Mycroft_, not just any tall, big-dicked, dark-haired man, but the comparison was not very flattering for John either way.

It wasn’t a very comfortable position for making out, their increasingly hard penises pushing against each other, and soon the blanket was removed rather impatiently and Mycroft grabbed Sherlock's legs to pull him down on the bed so he could push them against Sherlock's chest. Obediently, Sherlock held his thighs up so Mycroft could gain access to him.

“I _can _turn the heating up if you are cold,” Mycroft said, glancing questioningly at him, poking against his so naughtily offered entrance, which sent shudders of almost electrical pleasure through Sherlock's entire body.

Sherlock gasped and shook his head. “Not that cold right now.”

“Aren’t you.” Mycroft smirked at him and then he lowered his head and went to town.

There was something so delightfully indecent about watching Mycroft licking him. Of course he couldn’t see all that much, just his brother's forehead actually and a part of his nose as well as his eyes, but to feel him there, to hear all the naughty noises and know that Mycroft thoroughly enjoyed spending him pleasure like this – and a pleasure it was as Mycroft was using his tongue with the same skill as his large cock and his hands – was a thrill that even surpassed the thrill of chasing criminals. By far, actually. If Sherlock had been able to have sex with his man all the time, he wouldn't need any distractions as no matter how challenging life with Mycroft used to be – it had certainly never been boring.

And it wasn’t boring now, either. Mycroft licked him open, eventually using two fingers to open him up further and slide his tongue inside, and then he used a generous amount of lubricant to prepare Sherlock for the massive penis that was sliding into him a moment later. This position was incredibly intimate – Mycroft on top of him, buried in him balls deep, his mouth claiming Sherlock's passionately, muffling his moans for no particular reason as nobody could hear them, and Sherlock's arms were tightly around his brother’s neck, his legs slung around his waist, and there was no way they could have been connected any more.

Sherlock was completely gone now, his eyelids fluttering, his nerve-endings prickling with desire, and he almost passed out when Mycroft changed the angle of penetration just one bit and continued to push against his prostate with every powerful stroke of his hips.

His hard cock trapped between their bodies, Sherlock didn't need long to come, splashing his hot fluid all over his chest, smearing it against Mycroft's, and he was almost whining with overstimulation when Mycroft followed him, climaxing deep in his body, marking him inside, and Sherlock refused to let him go but held him in an iron grip while they were both panting and flooding on their post-coital bliss, and Mycroft indulged him and covered his face with kisses, and there was no way Sherlock could have felt any more loved, desired and thoroughly satisfied, and he caught himself wishing this moment would last for all time.

### A Challenging Case

“_Thanks for your tremendous help on this case, John.”_

“_Huh?”_

“_Yeah, right… Good morning!”_

“_Sorry, what’s your problem? I know I’ve been a bit distracted...”_

“_A bit? You’ve been staring and grinning at your phone all the time!”_

“_Yes, well, you might recall I have other things on my mind right now and...”_

“’_Things.’ Interesting expression for your girlfriend...”_

“_You know, Sherlock, you keep pretending you’re all appalled by your brother being so jealous and overprotective and all...”_

“_I’m not appalled by my brother!”_

“_I didn’t say that! But don’t tell me you haven’t cursed his attitude plenty of times. But in fact you are just the same with me.”_

“_What?! I told you before, these two matters have nothing in common!”_

“_Not like that, but you also think I’m your property! I’ve moved in with you so we can share the rent. We never really...”_

“_Oh, so you’re bored by our adventures, right.”_

“_No, I’m not! But I do have a life beside this and...”_

“_Ah, be quiet, John! I don’t have time for your lamenting!”_

“_Yes, right, storm off again! Damn, you’re even worse than him!”_

Mycroft winced when he heard the sound of a door being shut so hard that something seemed to have fallen off the wall.

He should be reading reports, not listening to the highly entertaining conversations in Baker Street. But this had sounded very promising again.

Sherlock had defended his doctor and insisted on going on living with him towards him several times. But now, four weeks after their brief fall out, there seemed to be some trouble in this part of paradise. He couldn’t say he was all that sad about it… As long as they were just bickering and Sherlock was driving the doctor away from him with allegedly treating him as if he was a misbehaving pet, it was just fine with him. Of course he would console his brother if he was sad about it. But he rather seemed pissed off. Good.

Mycroft had accepted that John, who still had no idea about the bugs in their flat, was no rival for him in regards of Sherlock's romantic and sexual desires. The past month had been filled with lots of very nice moments between them. But he still didn't like the ghastly little man. He would never understand what Sherlock was seeing in him. But obviously Sherlock had realised the doctor was not quite as helpful and loyal as he had thought. This dull, drab woman he had given his little heart to… It was actually an insult that Watson should prefer her to Sherlock (even though of course they deserved each other and they had his blessing for being all happy in their dull little world). Well, Mycroft had never understood heterosexual men, either. Small-minded, boring people with their conservative wishes and predictable little problems. John wasn’t any different, and it had been about time that Sherlock came to this conclusion as well.

Mycroft smiled when he checked the GPS device in Sherlock's coat. His brother was heading here. Fine. He would finish his report and then they could have lunch together. Life was beautiful.

*****

“Do sit down and eat with me.”

Sherlock stared at the sandwiches, neatly served on fine porcelain. He sighed and sat down in the visitor’s chair. “You think food is the answer to anything, don’t you?” He regretted having said this at once. Mycroft had struggled with his weight as a teenager and Sherlock knew he excessively used his treadmill to keep himself as lean as he was now.

But Mycroft didn’t look offended and just smiled. “Trust me – it won’t harm you either.”

“So you knew I was coming.” It was a rather redundant remark. Mycroft had certainly heard every word he had been exchanging with John.

The tall string puller nodded. “Johnny got all nasty so you needed my company. He is not entirely wrong though, you know.”

Sherlock glowered at him. “What is that supposed to mean now?!”

“That you do see him as your property. You want him to be there and present to admire you and tell you how great you are. It should have been clear he wouldn’t be like this forever.”

The detective sighed. “This is like comparing apples and oranges! But he agreed on being my partner in solving crimes so I demand he does that instead of texting with his stupid girlfriend.”

“You are jealous!” Mycroft accused, pointing at him.

Oh no. Not that again… “I am not! Stop that already! He can fuck this skeleton as much as he likes; I don’t bloody care! But when he is with me, he has to focus on the work!”

Mycroft leaned back in his chair, looking content. He even smiled. “You think he’s your property like I am.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow. “You? Mine?”

“But of course. We are each other’s property.”

Sherlock thought about that for a moment. Then he nodded. “Yes. I guess that’s true.”

The older man offered him his hand across the desk, and after a second of staring at it, Sherlock took it, and it felt good to hold his brother’s warm hand.

“Eat, little brother. Keep me company for a while.”

So Sherlock ate and stayed with Mycroft for an hour, and it was simply nice. And then his phone chirped and when he left a few minutes later, he was excited. A new case! Sounded promising!

Mycroft watched him leave, smiling and still feeling Sherlock's lips on his, and returned to his work, feeling at ease, for neither of them knew about the impact this case would have on their lives.

*****

“Man, that's a house!”

Sherlock just nodded, taking in the sight. And the house was a sight. No doubt about the wealth of the man living in it. This house was not only impressive and beautiful – it was a fortress. And still someone had managed to get in and steal something of tremendous value.

He had called John when he had been leaving Whitehall. The doctor had sent him half a dozen texts, apologising for their argument, and Sherlock had generously accepted it and told him to join him in the interrogation of their client, who had asked him to come to his place as he didn’t dare leave his house alone.

That sounded more than a bit eccentric and paranoid, but since the man had already become the victim of a theft and the circumstances had sounded interesting, Sherlock had agreed – after all the man had offered him a very generous amount of money for coming over and taking the case, and he would get a huge sum for finding back the item that had been stolen. And since his trust was still not available for him, Sherlock could do with this payment, which he would of course share with John.

He was amused by John's admiring looks. “Is our modest flat not good enough for you anymore?” he mocked him and rang the doorbell.

John grinned and shrugged. “It's fine. But to live in such a house…”

“You don't even own enough stuff to fill two rooms of it.”

“True, but…” John stopped when the door was opened.

“Mr Holmes?” the young man with the short, auburn hair said, his voice sounding relieved. And very posh. And extraordinarily melodic.

“Yes,” Sherlock said and shook the hand that was offered to him. “And my… colleague, Doctor John Watson.”

“I'm Tom Middleton. Well, I'm sure you figured out that much.” The man, about Sherlock's age and even taller than him, smiled sheepishly, showing perfectly even, white teeth. He shook John's hand as well and made an inviting gesture. “Please come in. I need your help so badly.”

_He's gay, beautiful, rich and charismatic_, Sherlock thought. If Mycroft found out that Sherlock had taken a case for such a man, he would go crazy…

*****

“Man, the case is even more interesting than the house,” John stated when they had climbed into the cab that would bring them back to Baker Street.

Sherlock had to agree. A valuable little statue had been stolen. Nothing else. The money that had been lying on the table in the same room had not been touched. The large television was still there. The Rolex as well. Only some stupid little piece of art had been taken away.

“Thousands of years old,” John mused. “Worth millions of pounds!”

Sherlock snorted. Who would pay so much money for this ugly piece of stone they had seen on the picture? Ancient history in every sense of the word. Sherlock had never been one for being interested in history. Or the solar system, or whatever other silly stuff other people found gripping. Waste of time and money if they asked him.

“And who the hell did he get in? The house's a fortress.”

Yes. That was the really interesting part. A locked house. All alarms in place and working just fine. And still the thief had got in and out without getting noticed; without leaving a trace. He had managed to disable the cameras around the house. They had shown nothing but blackness.

“Perhaps he just brought it somewhere else, this Middleton man,” John suggested. “Too suave, this man. Wants to betray the insurance maybe.”

“And called us to find the miserable thing? Come on.”

“No, listen. Maybe he wants to be extra clever. He can say he did anything to find it. Get the money.”

Sherlock sighed. “And then what? He is rich already.” He did consider though that the good-looking man wasn’t the rightful owner of the statue. He hadn't even called the police and had asked them for total secrecy. No blog entry about this case…

John leaned back against the backseat and gave him a smug grin. “Nobody can ever be rich enough.”

Sherlock sighed.

*****

“_Will you tell your brother about this case?”_

“_Why would I? It's my job and has nothing to do with him!”_ Sherlock sounded alarmed. And defensive.

“_Just wondering. God, this client is handsome as hell, and even I could see he's gay. Your brother would hate knowing…”_

“_God, shut up, John!”_

“_Oh, you impolite git!”_

Mycroft was already starting a certain program. The GPS had told him where Sherlock and his sidekick had gone. He put in the address and when he had a name, he turned to another program and copied said name into it. And his eyes narrowed when he saw the picture that popped up. Thomas Henry Middleton. Twenty-eight. A trader for ancient Chinese art. Richer than the Queen. As handsome as a model. Single, never married. Six feet two tall.

And Sherlock had not wanted to tell him anything about this new client. Did he fancy him? Did he want to explore what was under those expensive clothes?

This man could offer him everything. Not only financially; Mycroft was not nearly as wealthy but he could have afforded to spoil Sherlock in every way as well. Sherlock wasn't that keen on that though. As long as he had some decent designer clothes and a good haircut, he was happy. But this man could have offered him something else – he could be his boyfriend for everybody to see.

Hadn't it always only been a matter of time until Sherlock turned to someone he didn’t have to hide? Would this man now steal his brother's heart?

It made Mycroft's heart clench in pain. With his lips pressed together, he searched for more information about this man. If he wanted to take his brother away from him, Mycroft would fight back with all he had. Somewhere he would find ammunition for that. And if not, which he doubted very much, well, there were other ways to deal with a rival.

Nobody messed with Mycroft Holmes and got away to tell the tale.

*****

They had only arrived in Baker Street when Sherlock's phone signalised a call. “It’s Lestrade.” He answered and then listened for a while. “We’re on our way,” he said then and ended the call without another word.

“So?” John asked. “Something interesting?”

“You could say that. A man was murdered in his locked flat. It’s on the top floor of the building. No traces of a break-in. And he was a collector of Chinese art.”

“Damn...”

“Yup. Let’s go and have a look at the crime scene. Don't mention the other case. You remember – our client did not inform the police.”

John nodded in agreement.

Sergeant Sally Donovan gave them an icy look when they were approaching the house. “You again...”

“Isn’t it a beautiful day, Sally?” Sherlock mocked her and grinned when she glowered at him. How predictable she was in her hatred for him.

“It was until you showed up, Freak,” she hissed, extremely predictably.

Sherlock could have voiced the words for her. “Kindly step aside. Your boss asked for our support.”

“Support! You only want us to look like idiots!”

“If the shoe fits,” John said to Sherlock's surprise, and he chuckled into his collar.

He wondered if Sally would hit the doctor or at least yell at him now but she just balled her hands into fists and didn't say another word when they strode past her to enter the building.

Lestrade welcomed them in the staircase. “Anderson and his people are finished with the crime scene.”

“And have probably destroyed all evidence...” Sherlock mumbled.

“Sherlock… He might not appear as the brightest, but he does a good job.”

“Shall I feel flattered or insulted now?” Philip Anderson, head of the forensics team, grumbled, having shown up behind Lestrade.

“Both,” Sherlock answered for the slightly flushed DI. “Can we get in now?” He nodded when Lestrade stepped back and made an inviting gesture, and then he sighed when John’s phone signalised a call.

The doctor gave him an apologetic look. “Will only be a minute. It’s Sarah.”

“Yeah, who else.” Sherlock walked into the flat, not wasting another look at his partner.

*****

“So. You draw any conclusions?” John stored his phone. After being on the line with his stupid girlfriend for almost half an hour…

Sherlock clattered down the stairs without answering him, raising his hand to stop a cab as soon as he had stalked out of the building.

“Hey! I asked...”

“Why do you bother,” Sherlock snarled. “You didn’t even glance at the crime scene.”

“I did! I… Listen, I get you’re pissed off about that call but Sarah isn’t feeling well. What should I do – hang up on her?”

“Yes!” Sherlock climbed into the car and roughly pulled at the seatbelt while telling the driver where to go.

“Yeah, right. I bet you do the same, oh wait, no, you’d get spanked if you tried that.”

“He doesn’t spank me,” Sherlock said through gritted teeth.

“Yeah well, maybe he should...”

Sherlock glowered at John and the doctor glowered back, and then Sherlock sighed. “It was the same guy who broke into our client’s house. I’m sure. Nobody knows what is missing but he has certainly surprised the burglar; his hands show that he tried to defend himself; or perhaps he rather attacked whoever tried to steal something.” The flat had been stuffed with pieces of art, very old ones. Eventually they would find out what was missing; there had to be lists and insurance policies. Sherlock didn't actually care. All he did care about was that the killer had entered a penthouse flat without leaving traces, just like the burglar in Tom Middelton’s house had done. Only that this time the inhabitant had been at home and had paid with his life for fighting the robber. There had been a lot of blood; it looked as if a long, very sharp weapon had been used. If they were lucky, not all the blood was from the victim. Figuring that out would take time and Sherlock wanted to find the killer and thief before the results were there. This was exciting!

“What do you want to do now? Go back into Middleton’s house?”

Sherlock shook his head. He had seen it already. Another examination would be pointless and why should their client be shocked by how easily he could have been killed as well... Chinese art… A killer that could go through closed doors… Who was able to disable security; he had done it again here. Where to look for him? They could try to find out if their client’s artwork was being offered on the black market. It would be difficult enough.

He glanced out of the window – and stilled. “Want to see a show?”

John bent his head to follow his look. “Damn… You think…?”

“It’s worth a try.”

*****

“You think this Chinese illusionist, Master Shan, is your burglar and murderer?” Mycroft leaned back in his chair.

Sherlock shrugged. “It fits. He has arrived in London right before the first case. He works with lots of special effects so he could have the skills to disable the alarm systems. I will go there with John this evening and get an idea of him.”

“You could ask him for a blood sample.”

Sherlock grinned. “I could but that would be a little too suspicious. I can come to you afterwards.”

“That would be lovely. I could also accompany you.”

Sherlock didn't look too happy about his offer and Mycroft smiled. “Just kidding. You could take your new friend Mr Middleton with you there. The reaction of the man would give him away if he sees him.”

“I doubt he would be stupid enough to show that, even if the audience wasn’t in the dark.”

Mycroft nodded. “You are the detective.”

“And I’m _your _lover.” All at once Sherlock was standing in front of his chair, having hurried around the desk. “My client is just that – a client.”

“But he’s very handsome,” Mycroft mumbled. He had dug deep in the past of this man and hadn't found anything remotely fishy about him. Fine, probably not all the antiques he was trading with were quite that legal, but if so, they hadn't been long before he had got them. He seemed to be as decent a man as someone with his profession could be. And a bloody attractive one, too… It was hateful.

“I didn’t notice.”

“Liar.” But Mycroft had to grin.

Sherlock grinned back. “Okay, he is quite attractive. But unfortunately for him, my heart belongs to someone else.”

“And your body?”

Sherlock threw his hands in the air. “That too! Only you may fuck me, brother! And no – I won’t fuck him either, Mr Nitpicky!”

Mycroft chuckled and wrapped his arms around his waist to pull him close, nuzzling his face against Sherlock's flat, muscular stomach. “You know I can’t help it.”

Sherlock rubbed his neck. “I know. As long as you don’t bring him in for a completely pointless interrogation...”

“Ah, I thought about it...”

“I know you did. Please don’t.”

“All right. Love you, little brother.”

“Love you, too, crazy man.”

Mycroft grinned against his warm stomach. He could live with that.

*****

“What is _she _doing here?” Sherlock hissed, not too silent. He couldn’t believe his eyes.

John shot him a look full of anger. “It’s a show and she wanted to see it. You told me to get the tickets. Here’s yours.”

Sherlock ripped it from his hand. “This is about a case. No need to bring your, your...”

“Sherlock!”

“Hey, boys, don’t fight, okay? Sherlock, sorry to be a bother but I had a shitty day at work and I thought it would be a good distraction.”

Sherlock sighed. “Sorry. I’m just not used to John meeting women more than once and even taking them to a case...”

John looked as if he was close to exploding now and Sarah, plain-faced, boring Sarah, patted his arm. “I can go if you...”

“No! You stay! Or we both leave!” John said with his jaws clenched so tightly that it was a miracle that he could talk at all.

Sherlock turned on his heel, joining the queue of people waiting to be let in. “Shut up and come.” They were chasing a killer and John made a date out of it. Well, if he wished to. Sherlock wouldn’t get distracted by that. He had a case to solve. If John needed to share this moment with someone who breathed _‘Ah!’_ and _‘Oh!’ _at the performance of their suspect, then so it be.

*****

Half an hour later, he looked to both sides of the corridor before he opened the door of room 43 in the plain hotel Master Shan or whatever his real name might be was residing during his stay in London.

After watching the show for about five minutes, enduring loud music, an eye-hurting light show, parlour tricks and a short man in black clothes gesticulating with a sword, Sherlock had been sure he had found his man. Even behind the mask that was hiding most of his face Sherlock could see the coldness of a killer, and he certainly knew how to use a sword; his movements with it looked efficient and lethal beneath the show he was making with it. Perhaps it even was the murder weapon. And he had the body and the elegance of an acrobat if not a tightrope artist. Thinking about that, Sherlock assumed he had come over the roof when robbing Tom Middleton, and used a rope from the opposite building to reach the penthouse flat. It didn’t matter after all right now. He was it. He would find out the details later.

So he had waited until the audience lay in total darkness for the next time while the illusionist was performing a ‘stunning’ stunt and then he had hurried from his place right at the edge of the seat row down the dark corridor until he had been able to slip behind the stage. There had been nobody, no guard, no employee of the Norbury theatre. He hadn't bothered with informing John and his phone was off.

He had been sure he wouldn’t find the stolen artwork in the man's belongings at his work place but he must be hiding the swag somewhere if he hadn’t sold it already, and Sherlock had spent hours online to investigate the markets for this kind of stuff. He couldn’t be sure the man still had these items in his possession but he would search for it. And what he had found in one of the bags that belonged to the artist was the key card that he had just used to break into his hotel room.

He made light, certain nobody would catch him. Shan wouldn’t be back so soon; his show was supposed to run for ninety minutes. He took in the neat, plain room. He could have rummaged in the drawers or the wardrobe – he was wearing gloves – but he focused on the suitcase that was placed under the window. There was no way to know which size the object – or perhaps objects – he had taken from the murder victim were but the one he had stolen from Sherlock's client had been small and easy to hide.

For Sherlock it was a matter of minutes until he found the little addition to the otherwise conventional suitcase. He opened the hidden safe with ease and took out Tom Middleton’s little statue and two other items that were even smaller and looked totally uninteresting to him but he was sure they were also worth millions – whoever paid millions for a sodding comb.

He took out his phone and called Lestrade. Or he tried but he didn’t answer his phone. Before his call would be forwarded to the helpful Sally Donovan, Sherlock stored his phone again. He had already decided to leave the two artworks that probably belonged to the murdered man where they were and just take his client’s object. The other two would prove the killing if they could be connected to the victim, and perhaps they would find traces of blood on the illusionist’s clothes.

He would bring Tom the statue; nobody needed to know it had ever got lost. He was rather sure Tom wouldn’t be overly happy to get involved in a murder case and there was no reason to do so. After all he had asked Sherlock to be discreet while looking for it, and Sherlock was more and more convinced he had not got it legally. He didn’t see why he should care about that; as long as his trust fund didn’t pay him anything, he needed the money Tom would pay him for bringing back this stupid little thing.

When he left the hotel, he didn’t notice the man that was leaning against the wall of a café nearby and watching him.

*****

“My God. I can't believe it. You're not as good as they say – you are a lot better!”

“Well…” Sherlock shuffled with his feet. “I'm glad I could help,” he said modestly. He had explained his deductions to the young client and he couldn’t say he hadn't enjoyed the admiring looks. It was always nice to be appreciated.

“You take the rest cash as well?” Tom offered Sherlock a thick, white envelope.

“Oh, sure.” Just as he had expected. “The police have no idea about this so better not mention it to anyone.” He stored the envelope in the inner pocket of his coat.

“I most definitely won't even though it's a shame I can't praise you. I owe you. I mean, I have a certificate for this little beauty but sometimes the government doesn’t care about that.”

So it _was_ his property. Sherlock was a tad relieved. Perhaps because this man was just too nice and seemed too decent to be a thief himself?

He was smiling at Sherlock now and it was impossible to not smile back. Sherlock knew that if Mycroft could see them now, he would burst with jealousy.

He looked into the big blue eyes of this man, whose cheekbones were as prominent as his own. He was stunning, amazingly handsome. But he wasn’t like Mycroft. He had charisma and was definitely very smart, but compared to his brother, he was just another goldfish. Sherlock felt no urge to kiss him. He wouldn’t want to touch his tall, lean body. Perhaps, if Mycroft hadn't been in his life… But he was, had always been and would always be. He was like Sherlock's other half. A dark half, certainly. Too dominant more often than not. Difficult to deal with, most definitely. But Sherlock wanted to see him now. Kiss him. Love him.

“I've got to go,” Sherlock said.

Tom looked a bit disappointed, but he smiled. “Sure. It was a pleasure to meet you. I hope… Well, thank you again.”

Sherlock knew Tom wanted to see him again. He had no idea that a date would only happen over his own dead body… “You're welcome. Thank you too.” He patted against his chest where the envelope was hidden. He wished the man a nice evening and left before he could ask him out openly.

Standing on the street, he pulled out his phone again to call Lestrade, ignoring a text from Mycroft for now. If the DI still didn’t answer, he would have to inform another cop. He couldn’t risk Shan discovering what he had done and deciding to disappear. But when he was about to pick the policeman's number, his phone signalised a call. John. Was the show already over?

He accepted the call. “Yes?” For a moment he listened in confusion. There was a strangled noise. Furniture seemed to be moved. A woman's pained moan. And then he heard John's voice, hardly recognisable.

“_Baker Street,”_ he croaked, and then the connection was disrupted.

Sherlock didn’t waste any time with trying to reach Lestrade again. He stopped a cab by stepping onto the street right in front of it and yelled at the driver to bring him to 221B. And on the way home his thoughts were whirling – how could Shan have found out who he was?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The larger part of this chapter is not for the faint of hearted. It is violent and dark. For those who still choose to read, I hope you like it :)
> 
> This will be the last posting from me for a while. I'm working on a story but I won't have a lot of time to write the next days so the overexposure has come to an end :)

### Dire Consequences

Mycroft stared at his phone display and shook his head. What was his brother on about? They had agreed on meeting in his house after the show but then the GPS had shown him that Sherlock had left the theatre to go to a hotel. The conclusion had been easy enough to draw – Sherlock had found the key or key card in the man’s belongings and was now searching for the stolen goods. And obviously he had found them, because the next thing he had done had been going to Tom Middleton’s address.

Mycroft had fumed and texted him but Sherlock had ignored him. But then he had only stayed with Tom for a couple of minutes and now he was on his way to Baker Street as it seemed. Mycroft didn't get it. He was about to call his brother when Anthea poked her head in after knocking.

“Sir, I know you wanted to leave now but… the PM… He did something rather stupid.”

Mycroft huffed out a nasty laugh. “And that should be news to me?”

Anthea grinned. “Not exactly. But it was remarkably silly even for him...”

Mycroft sighed. “All right. Tell me.” Perhaps Sherlock had just gone home to fetch something. He would call him when he had handled the newest catastrophe. Sometimes he felt like an overpaid nanny…

Two minutes later he was hurrying out of his office, Anthea at his side as she didn’t want to miss the show when Mycroft would strangle the Prime Minister. If not with his hands, then with some mordant words.

*****

The downstairs flat was silent. Mrs Hudson had her bridge evening, Sherlock recalled.

He set his foot onto the first step. No noise was audible from 221B. He didn't have a weapon. He was alone. He knew he should have called for help, but something told him that John would die then. And Sarah, the doctor he was so fond of. He had heard her too.

When the door of his flat opened up abruptly after he had climbed half of the stairs, he almost fell backwards.

“Mr Holmes, do come in.” A heavy Asian accent. Shan.

The man had retreated again and Sherlock took a deep breath. He could do this. John had a gun. If he got to it… And he was skilled in martial arts to some extent.

He winced when he entered the living room, very slowly. John and Sarah were gagged and tied to kitchen chairs. His friend’s face was bloody and Sarah’s eyes were wide with panic. Their clothes were torn and soiled with blood, too.

“Let them go,” he said to the short man standing at the window. He was holding a sword, so far pointing at the floor. It was curved and looked exceptionally sharp.

“Give me what is mine and I do.”

“I… I can’t. I gave it to the police.” He knew at once that this lie was just stupid. If Shan knew that the statue was gone, he also knew Sherlock had left the rest of the stolen goods in place.

“Nice try.” Shan was speaking like a robot. His black eyes were colder than Mycroft's. He raised the sword. “You gave it back to the pretty man.”

Sherlock had to warn Tom but how? He could hardly pull out his phone… “He’s the owner.”

“It was stolen from my country decades ago.”

“Ah, I see. So you wanted to give it to a Chinese museum then? How generous of you.” Sherlock was just blathering, frantically trying to figure a way out.

“You’re mocking me?” Shan glowered at him and then he made a step to the side and swung his sword, and the next moment John was screaming behind his gag when Sarah’s head flew across the room and hit the opposite wall with the ugliest noise Sherlock had ever heard, blood shooting out of her neck all over the doctor and the floor. Thanks to the ties, her decapitated body was held up on the chair in its sitting position.

John rolled his eyes in a way that would have looked comically if this hadn’t been so horrifying and he seemed to pass out with terror and grief. And now Sherlock realised that he had really loved this woman.

Seconds had seemed to draw out to minutes, and then Shan stormed forward to attack him, ignoring the half-conscious man on the chair. Sherlock, cursing himself for not having taken off his coat before coming in, ducked himself to avoid the sword. Shan backed him up until his legs hit the couch and swung his sword against him. Sherlock rolled onto the couch and then pushed himself forward to tackle Shan’s knees. The man cursed while falling backwards but he didn’t drop the sword. Back on his feet he was, lifting the deadly weapon above his head to strike and Sherlock surprised him with a martial arts move, kicking against his chest, and he fell again, and this time the sword slid from his hands and clattered over the floor.

The moment he saw that Sherlock would grab it before him, he fled. Sherlock tumbled, torn between picking up the curved sword and following him, but when he heard the front door being opened and falling close, he stumbled over to John instead, freeing him of his gag and untying him. “Are you all right?” he asked, concerned. John’s face was deadly pale and his eyes looked as if he had suffered a shock. Which he most definitely had.

“All right...” John looked at the body on the chair next to him. Blood soaked clothes, the headless neck looking like a disgusting Halloween costume.

Sherlock had no idea what to say to this. It had happened so fast and so unexpectedly. “I’m sorry,” he quietly said, because it seemed like the right thing to say.

It wasn’t. John stared at him, his hands tight fists, his eyes raging with wrath. “You’re sorry, right. You provoked him! Without you, she’d still be alive!”

“John, that’s not very logical. I think I could have...”

“And you should have brought the fucking statue!”

“I had already given it to Tom where it belongs!”

“Shut up!” John screamed and then he shot up from his chair and the next moment Sherlock was being tackled by the short, stocky man, and all air was pressed out of his lungs when they hit the floor. “You hated her anyway!” John shouted, saliva splashing into Sherlock's face.

“I didn’t, I...” And then John’s right fist hit his face and Sherlock groaned. “No, please...”

It was pointless. Blows rained down on his face, one by one and he could feel his lips split. He tried to get rid of his flatmate's weight but John's legs were holding him in an iron grip and his muscular body was pressing him down heavily. Then John got up but just to kick him in the ribs, again and again, and one kick found his head and Sherlock lost consciousness, drifting into the dark, and in the last seconds before he was off his world was filled with pain and grief for a friendship that had ended in an unforgivably violent assault.

Five minutes later the doctor was gone, and someone else entered the flat in his place, looking at the bloody, motionless Sherlock. Then he glanced at the headless body and grinned. Everything according to plan. Some people were so calculable. They had fallen like dominoes.

“Oh Sherlock. My sleeping beauty. Lost a friend it seems,” he whispered, kneeling down next to the unconscious detective, a pale bruised face, his form hidden by his long, dark coat. “Well, you’ve got a new one! Ah, not really.” He turned to the man who had entered behind him. “Sebastian, be a good boy and pick him up.”

“Sure thing.”

The short, black-haired man watched his much taller partner gather his nemesis with ease. He couldn’t wait for him to wake up, even if it was right before he would die. And he would know who was killing him. And why.

*****

“You should let him have an accident,” Anthea said when they were walking towards their offices.

“It's tempting,” Mycroft agreed. “But who knows which stupid moron they'd present as the next one.” He had a lot of influence but there was only so much he could do about the useless people in the Tory party. At least this specimen had looked meek and promised to do better in future, not that Mycroft assumed that would work.

He took out his phone and glanced at the GPS report. Strange. Sherlock was moving away from Baker Street. But he was heading south so he wasn't on his way to him. Did he have another case? He wasn’t going back to his fancy client either; not that he had expected that. Sherlock obviously wasn't interested in him, just like he had said. So where was he going? If he had taken a case and couldn’t come to him, he would have surely sent him a text. Was he… in danger?

He stood abruptly, making Anthea glance up to him with concern. “Anything the matter, sir?”

Mycroft realised that goose bumps were breaking out on his arms. A premonition again? His fingers wiped over the screen, picking Sherlock's name from the contacts and calling him. “I don't know,” he said.

There was no answer. Sherlock always answered his phone. Fine, he had not responded to his text but the phone was switched on now. “Send someone to Baker Street,” he ordered. “And someone should check the camera feeds around it. I need to know who entered and left when and how. If John Watson is spotted, he has to be taken discreetly. And we need six agents to come with us – or rather follow us.” He couldn’t stand around and wait for them. Everything in him screamed to go where Sherlock was going right away.

“On it, sir.”

He knew Anthea had questions but she was way too professional and efficient to waste any time with them. She knew this was urgent.

And Mycroft was strangely sure it was a matter of life and death. He had to find Sherlock. And the signal showed him that he was still moving. Moving in a car without a doubt.

He entered his office only to fetch his umbrella, and then he and Anthea, who was busy on her phone, hastened through the long corridors of the Cabinet Office. He wasn't even aware he was silently praying to a God he didn’t believe in that they would find his brother in time.

“They'll be ready in latest ten minutes. I'll have them all picked up,” Anthea said while they were entering the black government car. She had her purse with her, which he knew contained a gun.

Mycroft nodded, giving the driver the instruction where to go, and to go fast, following the signal that showed him were Sherlock was going – or rather being brought as Mycroft had no doubt that something was very, very wrong. And while they were driving, he was cursing himself for not having planted a bug on Sherlock that could tell him who had dared take his beautiful little brother. And he begged for being wrong and about to surprise a pissed-off detective who was only chasing another criminal now and had just had no chance or had forgotten to let him know but deep inside he knew this wasn't the case.

And when he opened the program with the recordings of Baker Street and Anthea simultaneously told him what had been found in his brother's flat – a headless female corpse – his blood seemed to turn to ice, and when he had listened to what had happened while he had been wasting his time with the imbecile of a PM and watched what the cameras outside of the house had recorded, he didn’t know whom he hated more – Sherlock's so-called best friend who had manhandled him into unconsciousness or the man who had taken his helpless brother afterwards. He had recognised the voice at once and the video had confirmed it. Jim Moriarty. The self-proclaimed Napoleon of crime. And perhaps he even hated himself the most as he had brought this man into contact with his monstrous little sister a few months ago, and he had wasted his time with doing research about the handsome but harmless antiques trader because he had feared to lose Sherlock to him and completely missed the danger that had been creeping up on his beloved from a completely different side.

But he had been right about someone else and he was about to ask Anthea about him when his PA said, “They've got Doctor Watson. He's secured. Same place as the first time.”

Mycroft nodded grimly. And then he tensed. “They have stopped moving.” Moriarty and his accomplices had obviously reached their destination. With his little brother.

“The agents are only a kilometre behind us now.”

“We can't wait for them.” He gave the driver the address and told him to hurry up, and Anthea let their backup know where they had to go, and go fast.

*****

The voice was coming from far away, or so it seemed.

‘_Wake up, princess. It’s time to diiiiie.’_

There was water, he realised when he returned to consciousness very slowly. He was lying in lukewarm water. Dressed. No, no shoes, no coat. His head was throbbing with pain. His lips tasted like blood. His brain was spinning. He was lying in a tub. And the water was still flowing.

“Ah, look who’s back. The pretty, pretty princess.”

Sherlock had no idea who the man was. He was sitting on a plain chair about one-and-a-half metres away from the tub. He was about Sherlock's age, perhaps a few years older. His hair was jet black, his eyes huge and also black. His features were handsome but he looked unsettling. And that he had obviously kidnapped him and put him into a tub to, what, drown him? didn’t exactly speak of sanity.

“Hello, Sherlock. I'm Jim. Jim Moriarty. I guess you heard about me?”

Of course… In his mind’s eye he could see and hear the cab driver shout this last name. He hadn’t come very far with his investigations about the man. He hadn’t even been sure it was a man. “What do you want?” he said, his voice feeling and sounding as if he had gurgled with glass. He tried to sit up and incredible pain shot through his ribs and all of a sudden, the memory of what had happened before came back, and he cried out. John. John had beaten and kicked him, mercilessly, because he blamed him for Sarah’s death.

“Oh, yes, you’re in pain, huh?” Jim said with false sympathy. “Your little doctor was a bit nasty to you.”

“Where is he?”

“Oh, I have no idea. He had left when I arrived.”

Sherlock believed him. John had just left him lying in Baker Street. God… If Mycroft found out about that, and of course he would…

Mycroft… He would wonder about not having heard from him. He would come. But when…?

He glanced around in the shabby bathroom. An old house, given up in all probability. The old wallpaper was coming down the walls in some places. His coat was hung up at a rusty hook rail at the door. Out of reach. His phone…

“Oh, you want to call someone?” Jim mocked him. “I’m afraid your phone stayed in your flat. Such a pity. I left the money in your coat though. I’m not a thief. Well, at least not for something as banal as money.”

Sherlock had mostly blanked him out, thinking about his options. He was aware they were not that good… If it was his phone that told Mycroft where he was, he was lost. He had assumed there was something in his coat, too, though, and anyway, he wouldn’t just die without fighting back. And without knowing why. “Tell me why I’m here.” The water was almost touching his collarbones now.

The black-haired man smiled at him and it looked almost genuine. Then he stood up and lifted his one foot. “Look. Aren’t they pretty?”

Sherlock stared at his shoes. Trainers. Looking like they were from the eighties. The shoelaces changed three, no four times. Kept in mint condition but were clearly worn. “Yes. Fine shoes.”

“Oh, you’re disappointing me. You don’t remember? Your first ‘case’?” Jim mimicked quotation marks while saying the last word and the contempt in his tone was hard to miss.

Sherlock's brain was blank for a moment but then he winced. “Carl Powers. These are his shoes. And you took them.” The boy who had drowned in the pool, but Sherlock, an even younger boy at this time, had wondered about his shoes. They had been missing but nobody else had cared. The police, stupid as ever, had just smiled at him indulgently and sent him home to do his homework as the cop at the reception had put it, his colleague standing next to him, chuckling. Morons...

“Yes. Was so nice to see him die and nobody realised it wasn’t an accident. He’s mocked me, you know? Bullied me, like they say today. So I poisoned him on the way to London. It was so easy. And he conveniently died in the pool. It was so clever! And then you came and told the police something was wrong. You spoilt everything!”

“They never got you.” How could he even know about Sherlock's pointless efforts? This man was crazy. Totally and utterly crazy. And he had something to do with Shan, of course he did. How else could he have shown up at Baker Street at this moment? What was he? A crime lord, most certainly. Shan had stolen the pieces for him.

“Still!” Jim suddenly screamed, his eyes bulging out of their sockets. “You spoilt it and now you will drown like little Carl did. And your sister will celebrate your death.”

“Are you mad? I don’t have a sister.”

Jim made even wider eyes but he was grinning now. “Oh. You don’t know it! You don’t know about her! How is this possible?”

Sherlock couldn’t have said he was able to deduce this man with his unpredictable behaviour but he felt he was telling the truth. But that didn’t matter now. He had to get out of this tub. He wasn’t tied up or anything after all. Again he tried to sit up, heroically ignoring the pain but he fell back after a few seconds of struggling against the water. It just didn't work.

“Oh, be careful. Broken ribs can get pretty dangerous. You are supposed to drown, not punctuate your lungs, little detective.” Moriarty got up and bent over the tub.

The water had almost reached Sherlock's chin now – and he knew what Jim was planning. He tried to put his feet out of the man’s reach, sending more waves of pain through his body.

“Oh, don’t be a spoilsport. Let Uncle Jim grab your feet.” Jim smiled down on him and his smile was so insane that even Sherlock shuddered.

“Fuck off,” he rumbled, and Jim giggled.

“How impolite! Where are your pretty feet, where are they…?” And then he cried out and whirled around when the sound of several shots was echoing through the house. “Damn! Your brother is fast.”

So it wasn’t his phone that was showing Mycroft where he was going… Sherlock’s heart started to beat even faster than it had before. He didn’t want Mycroft to get hurt. But surely he had not come alone!

And then they burst into the room – Mycroft, carrying his umbrella as if he was about to have a stroll in the park, and the ever present Anthea, looking like some superheroine with her gun raised.

“Step back,” Mycroft said calmly. His eyes took in Sherlock's appearance and showed a mixture of shock and relief, just for a second.

“You fucking Holmes men are all spoilsports!” Jim whined, sounding crazier than ever. And then he made a step forward, swinging his fist, and a moment later, a red flower bloomed in his chest and he collapsed, dead before he even hit the floor.

And when Mycroft was already moving towards the tub to get Sherlock, who was now fighting to keep his head over the water, a large man with dirty-blond hair stormed into the room, screaming in pain and anger, attacking Mycroft as he couldn’t see the one who had really fired at Moriarty, and Mycroft grabbed the bottom part of his umbrella and pulled out a slim sword in one smooth motion, and the tall man ran into it before Anthea could fire again, having to wait for a clean shot. Gurgling and spilling blood all over the room, the man tumbled backwards, hit the wall and slid down on it, mumbling ‘Jim, Jim’ all over before he died.

Mycroft had not paid any more attention to the man he had just killed. He hurried to switch off the water and then he told someone who had just entered the room to help him getting Sherlock out.

A young man with a bullet proof vest, a huge specimen with no less muscles than brain, quietly said, “I’ll handle him”, and he gently lifted Sherlock out of the tub, putting him onto his feet.

Mycroft stabilised his waist. “It’s all right, little brother. They are all dead.”

Sherlock nodded, feeling as if his midst was on fire. His head was hammering like mad and he could hardly stand on his own feet.

“The ambulance is on its way,” Anthea said.

“You go with him. Make sure he’s safe.”

“I will, sir.”

Of course… Mycroft couldn’t be completely sure they had really killed all accomplices. They could have been somewhere else or fled when they saw him and his agents approaching. And Master Shan was out there as well…

Sherlock was nuzzling his throbbing face against Mycroft's neck. “Come with me.”

“I will catch up with you, don’t you worry,” Mycroft said, tenderly. “But I need to do some other things first.”

The agent brought a huge towel. It smelled a bit musty but it would do for now. Sherlock held still while his brother dried off his swollen face and gently wrung out his hair with it. He could hear sirens approaching. “Mycroft...”

“Shhh. Big brother will do what is necessary.”

He didn’t have to say more. And Sherlock knew whatever he said wouldn’t change a thing about John’s fate.

“There is a corpse in my flat,” he mumbled instead.

“I’ll inform Greg Lestrade. I’ll tell him you were found in 221B, they don’t have to know about Moriarty. This operation is going to be kept under the radar. Anthea found out the real name of your Shan type. I’ve got agents on him.”

Shan wouldn’t survive this either, Sherlock was sure; the police wouldn’t get him before Mycroft's people did. No loose ends…

His eyes were closing by themselves now, and he gladly sank down on the stretcher when the paramedics arrived. He hardly noticed when he was being put into the ambulance. But his eyes were wet when he was pulled out a few minutes later. He was crying for a friendship that had started so well and ended so nastily. And he knew he would never see John again outside of a coffin...

*****

“I see this time you did take a seat, John.” Mycroft slowly stalked towards the doctor like the predator he was. “Otherwise this is a déjà-vu, isn’t it, I suppose you do remember this place?” His voice was calm, almost friendly. Nothing gave away the wrath that was burning in him. He hated this man more than he could say. More than Moriarty. God, Moriarty… He shook the thought off for now.

John, tied to the uncomfortable chair in the middle of the abandoned warehouse, and tied up in a way that wouldn’t leave traces on his body, looked like death warmed up with his pale face and his soiled clothes but his eyes were glowering at Mycroft. Very frightening… “Sherlock will be so pissed off if he finds out about this,” the short doctor had the nerve to say.

“Are you kidding me?!” Mycroft yelled at him, “You beat him to a pulp and then left him behind! He has four broken ribs and bruises as if he’d fallen out of a window! I bet they can see imprints of your shoes on his body!”

“Without him, Sarah would still be alive!”

“My brother did not cut her head off, did he? And she was there because you took her to the show of a man you and Sherlock thought is a killer, and he is, and then you brought her to your flat. I don’t see any guilt on Sherlock's side.”

“He provoked the man!”

“No, John. It looks to me as if someone else has pulled the strings. He wanted to provoke _you_ into injuring Sherlock so he could take him, and as you are completely stupid, his fine plan worked.” Surely there would have been other ways to organise it. Jim Moriarty had not been working alone after all. But probably it had been his version of fun… Mycroft did know a few things about this man. He should have taken him out long ago and he would never forgive himself for slipping regarding him.

“Take him? What are you talking about?”

Mycroft knew he would never forget how Sherlock had looked in this tub in which he had been supposed to die. He gave John a detailed description of the situation, and the doctor paled more and more.

“I didn’t want that,” he mumbled then, his voice raspy.

“You know – I even believe that,” Mycroft said, nodding. “But that doesn’t change anything about your fate. You chose to hurt my brother in a vicious way because you blamed him for someone else’s deed. And frankly, even if Shan hadn’t just used Sherlock’s words to justify this murder, it wouldn’t excuse your behaviour. You were supposed to be Sherlock’s friend and look how that ended. How do they say – with friends like these, who needs enemies? I doubt this has ever fitted any better. When we met here first, I told you if you bring my brother into danger, I will find you. And I guess you knew back then what I would do if I found you.” He longed for beating and kicking John as viciously as he had done with Sherlock. But he had a plan for explaining the sucker’s death and even though it wasn’t likely that anyone would question it, he didn’t want to beat him to death and he knew this would happen if he let his wrath take over.

“You’re brave, threatening a tied-up man.”

Mycroft grinned. “You really think I was afraid of you? I’m merely saving us time. I’m not here to teach you a lesson, little man. Well, actually I am but it will be your last.”

“You can’t kill me. Sherlock will...”

“You overestimate my brother’s feelings for you. Do you really think he will break up with me because of you after all you’ve done?” He was almost sure this was true. He hoped it. In Sherlock's state, it was hard to tell what he had thought and how he would react when he was feeling better. But he knew things had not been all that rosy between the two flatmates even before this disaster.

“You want to go to prison because of this? I didn’t kill your brother.”

John was persistent; he had to give him that. “No, but if I had been just five minutes later, Moriarty would have killed him, and my brother would have never been in his hands without you! And you seriously think I would risk being prosecuted for ending your miserable life? You know who I am?”

John clenched his jaws and didn’t answer but his eyes widened when Mycroft reached into the bag he had brought and took out a curved dagger. “This is Shan’s. He had a nice collection of weapons, hidden in a wardrobe in his hotel room. Seems he had more plans for his stay in London. His fingerprints are on this.” He was wearing gloves of course. Shan’s hand had just recently been pressed onto the dagger.

“They will find out that he died before me.” John almost choked at those words.

Mycroft smiled. “Who says he’s dead already? You think I’m an amateur?”

“Please… Let me go. I’ll apologise to your brother; I’ll do everything you want. I disappear from his life.”

Mycroft beamed at him even though he felt nothing but disgust for this pathetic little man. “Yes! You _will _do everything I want and you _will _disappear because you will die.” And he darted his hand forward and slit John’s throat.

The noises the doctor made were awful and embarrassing. Blood was trickling steadily out of the wound, soaking his already deranged clothes. John’s eyes were wide when he tried to breathe through his slit trachea. He was drooling and gagging and it was most unattractive. And very rewarding...

Mycroft pulled out his phone and seconds later he gave some orders while still watching John's pointless struggling, and then he called Anthea to get an update about his brother’s state. Relieved, he stalked out of the warehouse, where John’s gurgles had stopped. He would have died for going to his brother now but he had something else to take care of before. Something else he should have done long ago.

*****  
When Mycroft entered Sherlock's hospital room the following morning, his brother wasn't alone. Lying in his large bed that made him look so small, two visitors were sitting on either side of the bed. Red-eyed Mrs Hudson, sloppily dressed, was holding Sherlock's hand, Greg Lestrade wasn't.

“Good morning, Sherlock.” He briefly nodded at the two other people in the room but then focused on his brother. He was looking horrible. His face was an explosion of colour and with these lips he wouldn’t kiss Mycroft so soon in earnest. If he would ever do it again…

But Sherlock's eyes told him he would. He saw sadness in them, pain, and grief, but no wrath, no hatred, and no accusation. Sherlock had known John had it coming. He had understood that Mycroft couldn't let this go unpunished.

“I was here in the early morning hours to check on you,” Mycroft said. “But you were sleeping so peacefully that I didn’t want to disturb you. How are you?” He could see Sherlock's phone on the nightstand; Lestrade had brought it obviously.

“Okay,” Sherlock mumbled, and Mycroft could see his free hand twitching.

There was nothing he could do about it right now. Lestrade knew about them but Mrs Hudson did not. So as much as he would have loved to hold Sherlock's hand, it had to wait.

“Seems you didn’t sleep at all,” Sherlock stated, and it was the truth.

He'd only had a nap for half an hour after everything had been done and dusted.

“I just told Sherlock that John was found dead,” Lestrade said, watching him closely.

“He was?” Mycroft asked with raised eyebrows.

“Yes. Obviously this illusionist, Shan, the one who killed John's girlfriend, murdered him and then killed himself.”

There was no other chair and Mycroft didn’t want to sit on Sherlock's bed now so he kept standing. “My agents didn't find him,” he said in an apologetic tone. “But perhaps John followed him?” Shan _had_ killed himself in the end. He hadn't liked the alternative of being tortured to death.

“We'll never know. His phone was destroyed,” Greg said. “It rained heavily last night and they were lying in the open, and his phone had dropped during his fight with Shan we assume. And all the cameras along the way didn’t work for the whole night I was told. No way to find out where he was in between.”

He knew it of course. He knew that Mycroft had taken care of John and was responsible for the miraculously not-working cameras. But he would never be able to prove it, and he might be a goldfish but he was well aware of that. And he certainly recalled their first meeting more than five years ago and knew that not even a detective inspector would be safe from disappearing should he try to convict Mycroft.

“I'm sorry, little brother,” he said, softly. “For losing your best friend.” For Sherlock had lost him and not when Mycroft had ended his life but when John had decided to beat their friendship to death.

Sherlock nodded ever so lightly. “Thank you. He was very brave, fighting with me against Shan and then going after him.”

Oh, that's what he had told the police and his landlady. He had blamed his injuries on Shan then. Mycroft was pretty sure Lestrade hadn't bought that as he could hardly believe Mycroft had taken John out for any other reason than John having been the one to blame. But what good would it have done to destroy Mrs Hudson's illusions about her late tenant. She looked awful, shaken and small and Mycroft could imagine she would suffer even more if she knew the truth about Sherlock's injuries and Greg Lestrade had obviously silently agreed on that.

“Thank you for keeping my brother company,” he said to the old lady, and for the first time, she smiled at him, albeit weakly.

“It's all so horrible. This poor girl. And John. And now Sherlock wants to move out.”

Mycroft stared at his brother. Sherlock nodded.

“I can't live in this flat anymore. Perhaps… I can stay with you for a while.”

Mycroft felt as if he was bursting with sentiment and it was hard not to let it show. “Of course you can, brother mine. I have plenty of space,” he simply said.

“Come, Mrs Hudson, let's go grab a coffee. I guess the Holmes men have to talk about a few things,” Greg Lestrade said while standing up, and for the first time since he had appeared in Sherlock's life, Mycroft liked the man – apparently it was the day of first times.

And he was sure Lestrade would never do to his brother what his so-called best friend had, and not just because he feared the consequences. “That would be nice.”

“I'll bring you one, too.”

“Even nicer, Mr Lestrade.” Mycroft nodded at the man and got a half-smile and a brief nod in return, and then Greg took Mrs Hudson's arm and guided her out of the room. She looked as if she had aged ten years since the last time he had seen her.

Mycroft was sitting next to Sherlock's bed at once, taking his hand and gently pressing a kiss on it. “I'm so glad about that, little brother. I didn’t expect it.”

Sherlock gave him a wry smile. “I can imagine. Listen, I… I don't want to talk about him. I will make an official testimony tomorrow, giving them the version you just heard. Tell Lestrade the truth maybe when we're alone as I could see he didn’t believe me. And I…” He broke off.

“I will never mention his name again. But I guess there will be a funeral to attend.”

Sherlock grimaced and Mycroft put a hand onto his cheek, very gently as it was shimmering in all colours of the rainbow. “I'm sorry, Sherlock. Sorry for having to do this. But I had no choice.”

“I know…” And then Sherlock urged him to come closer and Mycroft indulged him, kissing his split lips with all the gentleness he could muster. It was hardly a passionate snog but it transported all the love and the care and devotion he was feeling for his little brother, and in return he got forgiveness and understanding and deep affection, and, of course, love.

When they parted, Sherlock's bottom lip was bleeding again, and Mycroft pulled out his handkerchief to attend to it.

“When I feel better, can we… Can we go somewhere?” Sherlock asked him, and Mycroft nodded vehemently.

“We most definitely will. I thought about it already. A nice place where we can be open about our relationship.”

“That would be great. Mycroft… Moriarty… He told me… we have a sister.”

Mycroft sighed. “We did. Until last night.”

Sherlock opened his eyes widely. “You mean you…”

“…killed her, yes. She teamed up with Moriarty against you. But it was also my fault. She asked me to have five unsupervised minutes with this man last Christmas. I had no idea he would go at you. I'm so sorry.” He hadn’t even considered this conversation could be about Sherlock. He had been slipping badly and Sherlock had paid the price. Well, now Eurus and Moriarty had, too…

Sherlock shook his head. “This aside – how the fuck can I have a sister I don't remember?!”

“I will tell you. The short version.” And he did, and the next ten minutes he told Sherlock about this weird, over-intelligent psychopath of a little sister, who had managed to get rid of Sherlock's only friend and then burnt their house down. He explained how he and their uncle had deceived their parents, making them believe the girl had died, but how she had instead been locked away, eventually sort of occasionally working for the government and getting treats in return. And one of them had been Jim Moriarty.

Sherlock looked as if he had suffered the next shock. “So I chose to forget her because I was so horrified about Victor's disappearance? And in my imagination I turned him into a dog? My God… Never thought this all could get any crazier…”

“It was a lot for hardly two days.”

“And you spent the night with…” Sherlock shook his head and Mycroft stroked his hand, and he was relieved when Sherlock linked their fingers together.

Mycroft had gone to Sherrinford, the prison their sister was locked up in. He hadn't come there during the night for the first time so it wasn't suspicious. While he had been walking to her cell, Anthea had started manipulating the video feed. It would not show what had really happened, how Mycroft had injected a secret poison into Eurus’ upper arm while she had asked him nasty questions about Sherlock's well-being, completely surprising her. It had caused a stroke she had died of within minutes. He had left when he had been sure it was over. The feed would show him leaving while Eurus was sitting in her cell as she had always had. She had got injections all the time as she had tended to freak out and attack the guards on her really bad days so one more mark would hardly be suspicious. And he knew nobody would ask questions. One lunatic less they had to worry about. The friends of the guard she had only recently raped and killed with her bare hands would probably not shed a tear about her.

“How was she?” Sherlock asked, sounding exhausted in more than the physical way.

“She was horrible,” Mycroft said honestly. “I'm sure you feel deceived by me for never telling you about her but you forgot her for a reason.”

“And you wouldn’t have mentioned her if not for last night.”

“No. Never. She was useful for the country at times but she made your life only miserable. Back then and right now.” There had been no question to let her go unpunished for this. She and Moriarty had planned Sherlock's death, God knew why. He hadn't had to the time to force her to tell him and Jim couldn’t tell him anymore either.

“Why did she hate me so much?” Sherlock looked at him with eyes full of despair, and Mycroft couldn’t endure it.

“She didn't, little brother. She loved you a lot in her own, twisted way. She wanted you for herself and since she couldn’t have that, she killed your friend and obviously she saw John’s blog and realised you had found another friend and she decided to blow this up out of jealousy and anger. Well, you might think your siblings are all the same…”

Sherlock gasped and then laughed, and then he cringed as it caused pain not only in his mouth but his ribcage. “Don't…”

Mycroft smiled and stroked over his hair. “Sorry, love. I didn’t think that would make you laugh.”

“It's not funny actually…”

“No, it isn't. I'm glad you don't hate me for it.”

“Mycroft… You still don't know I could never hate you, and never leave you?”

And after his remarkable statement Mycroft just had to kiss him again, and he tasted blood but he didn’t care in the least and Sherlock didn’t seem to mind the small pain either. He cleaned both their faces afterwards though and when Lestrade and the old lady came back, bringing him coffee, he looked impeccable as always. He had showered and shaved in his private bathroom in his office, where he had also slept for a while before coming to the hospital, and where he kept a spare suit.

It had been a long night and a violent night but Sherlock would be okay, and he still loved him, and that was all that mattered in the end.

### Epilogue: A Happy Holiday

“Did you see how this man just looked at your arse?”

Sherlock sighed. “Mycroft, _everybody_ looks at my arse; I wear pretty small shorts, which _you_ chose by the way, and without wanting to sound smug – my arse is pretty nice.”

“I must have been crazy to pick them,” Mycroft grumbled darkly.

“You just did so you can go crazy about people staring at my bum.”

“Maybe.” Mycroft smiled and Sherlock shook his head and chuckled.

They were walking hand in hand towards their little bungalow. It was an amazing feeling to not having to hide their relationship. Sherlock was always wearing a cap when they were outside and nobody actually paid attention to him – other than staring at his golden globes or his muscular thighs. Mycroft wore a cap as well but mostly to protect his sensitive head, which wasn't covered by as much thick hair as Sherlock's was. And whenever they couldn’t walk next to each other, he walked behind Sherlock so he could ogle his fantastic arse as well.

Sherlock's injuries had all healed since John's vicious attack. He still felt a bit of pain in his ribs when he had to cough or sneeze but the bones had healed well. They were careful when they made love these days but there was nothing bad about that. Mycroft loved to take care of his brother's needs in a most tender way, and it was always Sherlock who urged him to take him harder at some point of their encounters, and Mycroft trusted him with knowing what he could take.

It had been here at this beautiful part of the world that Mycroft had got his first serious rimming from his brother and had lost his anal virginity to him the next night. And Mycroft had enjoyed it; he couldn’t deny it. Sherlock had been highly aroused while thrusting into him carefully, doggy style, and it hadn't lasted very long, but Mycroft had assured him they would do it more often in the future, and he could imagine how Sherlock would take him in their bed after returning to cold, rainy London; at this point he would hopefully be completely recovered and could fuck him really hard.

Sherlock had started taking cases again – although acting more like a consultant and less like a literally criminal-chasing detective, and sometimes he met clients in Mrs Hudson's flat as she had offered this to him, but usually he only worked for the police and he didn’t need an office for that after all. He had moved in with Mycroft and the older man was sure he didn’t plan to change anything about this arrangement anytime soon. If asked, he said he couldn’t afford the rent of the flat on his own and that there were too many disturbing memories in 221B Baker Street to keep living in this flat anyway, and since Mycroft owned a big house with a large guest room… Nobody had got suspicious, Mycroft was sure. Of course he would take care of anyone who tried to harm them but right now it was all fine. And naturally, Sherlock only had his belongings in this guest room; he didn’t actually live there. Only when his housekeeper came along, they made it look as if Sherlock had slept in his bed.

“I need a shower,” Sherlock said when they had entered their rented bungalow. “Care to join me?”

“Most definitely.” They shed their clothes everywhere while walking to the bathroom with the little shower cubicle that was hardly big enough for two grown men.

They didn’t care though. Under the lukewarm spray they kissed fiercely, and now there was no danger of a lip starting to bleed. The physical wounds were gone. Sherlock had attended John's funeral, and he had asked Mycroft to accompany him, which had felt a tad weird but he had done it of course, but after this Sherlock had never mentioned John again. Probably he was talking about him with Mrs Hudson from time to time though as she would certainly bring up the subject; Mycroft could only assume it as he didn’t have ears in her flat. He knew Sherlock was still thinking at the doctor and whenever he could feel him get melancholic, he would pull him into a tight embrace.

He groaned when Sherlock's hands slid over his slippery body, massing body wash into his skin, and they washed each other and groped each other, and then Sherlock got down on his knees to suck him, and Mycroft, having held him by the arm on his way down so he wouldn’t slip, looked down on him through the shower spray, knowing he would never get tired of watching Sherlock worshipping him, and Sherlock put on a show for him, deep-throating him with a wanton expression that made him smile, and then he urged Mycroft to turn around so he could take care of the other side, and Mycroft almost screamed when his brother's hot tongue breached his muscle and licked him inside.

Sherlock put off the spray when he got up and used the body wash as improvised lubricant, massaging it into Mycroft's already widened hole just to shallowly push inside.

He stilled when his engorged head had gone past the ring of muscles, wrapping his arms around Mycroft's waist. “Okay?”

“Yes. Just be careful with your ribs.”

“They're fine,” Sherlock assured him and started to fuck him in a lazy rhythm, and Mycroft was panting and cursing, wondering why he had never allowed himself to indulge in these pleasures before their holiday.

Oh yes, because he had been burning with jealousy… It appeared a tad irrational to him now. Perhaps his perspective had changed a bit since almost having lost Sherlock forever because he had wasted his time with focusing on the wrong man…

Tom Middleton, the grateful client, had disappeared from Sherlock's life like all his clients did, and he had no idea what had happened to the detective after bringing back his precious statue.

When Mycroft came with his brother still buried deep inside him, he painted the walls with white stripes, and Sherlock erupted in him not long after, being driven over the edge by the clenching of his strong muscles.

He could feel Sherlock's come dribbling out of him when his brother pulled out and it felt weird but amazing. He turned to face Sherlock and claimed his mouth in a loving kiss. “Love to bugger big brother?” he smirked, and Sherlock laughed out loud.

“Yes. In fact I do. But I love to be bum-fucked by big brother every bit as much.”

“Good. Because that's what's going to happen in about half an hour.”

“You'll never manage to be ready so fast again,” Sherlock teased him.

“I'll show you,” Mycroft assured him and kissed the smirk from his lips. And twenty-five minutes later he did, and he showed him his love like he would always show him.

He might be possessive, and jealous, and sometimes behaving pretty irrationally, but in the end, all that mattered to mighty Mycroft Holmes was his brother and their love for one another, and he would do anything to protect this. Anything at all.

  


\- The End -


End file.
